


New Rules

by zathara001



Category: Highlander: The Series, NCIS
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Crossover, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-24
Updated: 2017-10-12
Packaged: 2019-01-04 20:55:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 14
Words: 28,459
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12176424
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zathara001/pseuds/zathara001
Summary: In the aftermath of "Dead Air" (NCIS 8.05), Jethro and Tony discover they share a similar headache, like hives of bees took up residence in their skulls. What does it mean?





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> AUTHOR'S NOTE: This is more NCIS with a Highlander twist than a true crossover, though Duncan MacLeod does make an appearance or two. Please note that it goes wildly AU after "Dead Air" and never looks back. It's probably not all that faithful to Highlander canon, either. You have been warned.
> 
> Finally, as always, all rights in this work are hereby given to the creators/owners of NCIS and Highlander, respectively.

Leroy Jethro Gibbs sat at his desk, reviewing yet again the files on the residents of Royal Woods. At first glance, all of their background checks came up empty - but that in itself set his gut churning, so he was going over them again while DiNozzo, McGee, and David were out collecting voice samples.

 

Very few people were actually model citizens, and the chances of 43 model citizens living in the same gated community, however exclusive that community might be, were odds that no bookmaker would take. So far, though, Jethro hadn't found any evidence to back up his gut.

 

And then it wasn't his gut he was worrying about, as a buzzing sensation settled in the back of his head.

 

Jethro straightened to glance covertly around, wondering what might have caused it. Nothing seemed unusual in the bullpen, so he told himself to ignore it, that the stress of the case must be getting to him in a weird way.

 

The elevator dinged, and Jethro looked up to see the others returning from canvassing the neighborhood.

 

McGee and David seemed normal enough, but to Jethro's experienced eye, DiNozzo was moving slowly, carefully, and certainly more quietly than usual. DiNozzo had zipped up his jacket, and there was a tightness around his eyes and mouth that suggested some discomfort.

 

It was only the presence of that buzzing sensation in his skull that made him ask, "Something wrong, DiNozzo?"

 

He hadn't really expected an answer, but DiNozzo turned to him. "Sudden weird headache, Boss - like a hive of bees took up residence in the base of my skull. Give me a minute."

 

DiNozzo didn't wait for an answer before striding toward the men's room - at least, Jethro noted, he was moving more quickly than before.

 

Jethro tamped down his surprise at Tony's description, so like his own headache, in the face of the bigger question. He turned his gaze first on McGee, then David.

 

"What happened out there?"

 

The two junior agents exchanged a glance, and David said, "Nothing. Tony got the samples, and we came back here."

 

Jethro studied them a moment longer. Something must have happened, or else DiNozzo wouldn't be getting the same headache he'd gotten once or twice over the years. Still, maybe he should talk to his senior agent first.

 

Without another word, Jethro followed DiNozzo to the men's room.

 

Inside, he found his senior field agent leaning on the sink, staring into the mirror. DiNozzo's face was damp, and Jethro concluded that he'd splashed water on it.

 

"What happened out there, Tony?" Jethro asked.

 

"Why do you think something happened?" DiNozzo countered.

 

Jethro debated only for a second before answering, "Because I have the same headache you do, and I never got it until after something happened to me."

 

DiNozzo met his gaze in the mirror and Jethro watched his throat muscles as he swallowed. "What happened?"

 

 _In for a penny, in for a pound._ "I died."

 

DiNozzo flinched, and it was all the confirmation Jethro needed.

 

"How the hell did you die out there and they -" he jerked his head in the direction of the bullpen "- didn't notice?"

 

Instead of answering directly, DiNozzo turned to face him and unzipped the jacket he wore.

 

Jethro's breath caught at the sight of the bloodstained shirt beneath the jacket, the slash in the fabric at the left ribs. Then DiNozzo pulled his shirt aside and Jethro saw the unblemished skin beneath.

 

"Last house," DiNozzo - Tony - was saying. "Burglary in progress. The guy was strung out on something, got lucky."

 

"Not sure I'd call this lucky," Jethro muttered. Aloud, he said, "And?"

 

"And?"

 

"And what happened after he got lucky?"

 

"I - passed out, I guess." Tony swallowed hard. "Only you said you died, so maybe I died, too. I don't know. Whatever happened, I came to, and the guy was gone."

 

"Then what?" Gibbs prompted.

 

Tony blew out a breath and his expression hardened. "I got up, realized the wound had healed, freaked out for a few seconds, zipped up my jacket, and headed back to Ziva and McGee."

 

There was more, lots more, Jethro knew. He also knew this wasn't the time or place to get into it. Right now, he had to focus on the immediate problem. "Just say it, Tony."

 

Tony shook his head, pulled a miniature recorder from his pocket. A moment later, other voices echoed through the room.

 

_"What happened to you?"_

_"Don't play dumb. You reveled in every minute of my suburban suffering."_

_"Actually, no, we've been not listening for the last couple hours. One can only stand your voice for so long."_

 

White-hot anger like he hadn't felt since he'd found out Shannon's and Kelly's deaths hadn't been an accident shot through him. Jethro's fists clenched, and it took all his self-control not to storm out of the men's room and kill his junior agents with his bare hands.

 

"Boss." Tony's voice brought him back. "It's okay, Boss."

 

"No," Jethro ground out. "It's not. But it will be."

 

"Boss?"

 

But Jethro's mind had slipped into that clarity that only came when all the pieces of a puzzle had fallen into place. He knew what he had to do.

 

"Take off your shirt, DiNozzo."

 

Tony blinked, then smirked. "Didn't think we had that kind of relationship, Boss."

 

Jethro glared at him. "Take off your shirt. Put your jacket back on, go wait for me in the break room. I'll deal with them, and then we'll deal with this."

 

Tony's eyes widened briefly, but then he was shrugging off his jacket and starting to unbutton his shirt.

 

Jethro checked the recorder's display, making a note of the location on the recording. "This pick up your fight?"

 

"Yeah." Tony gave him a number, and Jethro repeated it silently to himself, memorizing it.

 

Then Tony's jacket was zipped, and he was reaching for the door.

 

"Move slowly," Jethro said, "like you were when you came in. You have a superficial knife wound."

 

"It healed - ah." Always quick, Tony nodded once in acknowledgment, and then he shuffled out of the room.

 

Jethro followed more normally, but where Tony turned toward the elevator, Jethro turned back to the bullpen. His pace increased with anger when he saw Ziva and McGee apparently focused completely on their computers. Normally, he'd appreciate dedication to duty, but today, they'd breached their first duty and they were totally unaware just how wrong that breach had gone.

 

He couldn't tell them the full truth, but he could damned well make sure they understood how they'd screwed up and how badly.

 

"David, McGee, with me." Jethro didn't pause to make sure they were following as he turned and strode up the stairs toward the director's office.

 

Director Vance's assistant, Cynthia, opened her mouth when she saw him, but something in his expression made her wave toward the door. "He just got off a conference call."

 

Jethro shoved the director's office door open and stormed inside. Leon Vance looked up from his desk, one eyebrow raised inquiringly - which, Jethro had to admit, was a lot better than the angry glare he'd been expecting.

 

"A disciplinary matter needs your attention," Jethro told him, his voice mild despite the snap in it.

 

"We have forms for that," Vance observed dryly.

 

"You'll be signing a bunch of 'em soon." Jethro turned to face his junior agents. They stood silently, watching - McGee's expression confused, David's studiedly neutral.

 

"These two," Jethro all but snarled, "think it's fine to joke about not having their partner's back when they're in the field."

 

"I do not know what you mean, Gibbs," David said. "We were there the whole time."

 

"Physically, maybe," Jethro allowed. "But when DiNozzo got back to the car, you told him you hadn't been listening."

 

McGee flinched. David didn't.

 

"See, Boss, it was only for a minute," McGee began, and Jethro had to acknowledge a little respect for the junior agent's tone. He'd half-expected McGee to stutter again.

 

"Really?" Jethro asked. "A minute?"

 

"Or two, perhaps," David allowed.

 

"That's all?" Jethro looked from one to the other. "You're sure?"

 

They glanced at each other, then nodded.

 

"Gibbs," Vance began, but Jethro held up the hand with the recorder in it, and Vance paused.

 

Jethro pressed _play_ and once again those terrible words filled the room.

 

_"You reveled in every minute of my suburban suffering."_

_"Actually, no, we've been not listening for the last couple hours. One can only stand your voice for so long."_

 

"It was a joke," McGee protested. "C'mon, it's not like Tony never jokes around."

 

"Does he joke around in a way that leaves you wondering whether he has your six?" Jethro shot back. "More to the point, does he joke around in a way that leaves _me_ wondering - and then lie about it?"

 

"That's a little harsh, Gibbs," Vance said. "Sure, it was in poor taste, but it was a joke."

 

"Poor taste," Jethro repeated, his tone deliberately mocking. "Then what's this?"

 

He flung Tony's shirt onto the director's desk, red blood dark against the white silk.

 

McGee took a step forward. "What happened? Is Tony okay?"

 

"Of course Tony is okay," David said. "He is being dramatic to drive his point home."

 

Jethro ignored her, instead keeping his gaze fixed on Vance's.

 

"I've never known Jethro Gibbs to be dramatic," Vance said after a moment. "To make a point or otherwise. Go on."

 

Jethro turned back to face his junior agents. "A minute or two, you said. Not the couple of hours you said on the tape. You're sure?"

 

Again, they glanced at each other and nodded.

 

Jethro rewound the recording to the other number he'd memorized and pressed _play_ again.

 

 _"Finally,"_ Tony's voice sounded hoarse, overused. _"Last house. 26867 Royal Woods Drive."_

 

A knock, a pause, another knock, then Tony spoke again. _"Doesn't seem to be anybody home. Wait, I see movement inside. … Shit, burglary in progress. I see one guy, could be more. Come on, guys - he's going out the back. I'm going after him."_

 

Jethro kept his attention on McGee and Ziva. McGee had paled, and Ziva was starting to look concerned.

 

Her concern deepened when muffled sounds that might have been Tony's footfalls on grass or gravel came from the recorder, and then Tony's voice rang out again.

 

_"Federal agent - freeze!"_

 

Then there was a shout and then a sound Jethro knew too well - fists hitting flesh. Tony's grunts, and another voice, male, high-strung, shouting incoherently.

 

The sounds of the fight faded abruptly into silence. Jethro let the recorder play for a full minute before he turned it off and put it on the shirt lying on Vance's desk.

 

"The dirtbag was strung out on dope, according to DiNozzo," Jethro said, keeping his voice steady through force of will. "Guy got lucky, he said - but DiNozzo's the lucky one. Bled a lot, but it's a surface cut."

 

"That was just a minute or two for the fight. How long after?" Vance asked.

 

"Fifteen minutes before DiNozzo got back to the car," Jethro answered, then continued before Vance could say anything else. "Give the case to Balboa. DiNozzo and I will be back on Monday."

 

He turned to the door, paused to glare first at David, then McGee. "Don't bother reporting to me on Monday. You're off my team. Preferably out of NCIS, but that's not my call."

 

Jethro slammed the door behind him without looking back.


	2. Chapter 2

By the time they arrived at Gibbs' house, Tony had managed to shove the buzzing headache to the back of his awareness. It had stopped when the elevator doors closed in front of him, and stayed stopped until a few seconds before Gibbs strode into the break room, his expression one of grim satisfaction.

 

Tony hadn't dared to question Gibbs with that annoying buzz of a headache distracting him, so he'd followed Gibbs silently from the room, leaned on Gibbs as they passed the security checkpoint on the way out - not because he needed it, but because Gibbs said the official cover was that Tony had a minor stabbing injury and a concussion, and someone in that condition wouldn't be too steady on his feet - and then climbed into Gibbs' car without a complaint.

 

Now, Gibbs turned into his driveway, and Tony realized with a shock that he hadn't said anything the entire trip. Then again, the front seat of a car, especially with Gibbs driving, was not the best place to have a conversation that would likely turn personal, if not painful, if what Gibbs had said earlier were anything to go by.

 

Gibbs killed the engine and Tony grabbed his go-bag, the one he'd completely forgotten so Gibbs had brought it with him to the break room. Minutes later, they were inside Gibbs' house, and while Tony took his go-bag to the guest room he'd occupied a handful of times, he heard Gibbs ordering pizza.

 

He shrugged off his jacket, dug in a drawer for one of the T-shirts he'd left here that time the boiler in his apartment blew, and tugged it over his head. Shoes kicked off in the vague direction of the closet, Tony padded back downstairs.

 

Gibbs met him at the foot of the stairs, a beer in each hand. He offered one to Tony. "Twenty minutes for the pizza."

 

"Not as long as usual."

 

"It's early, still," Gibbs replied, and Tony glanced at his watch, surprised to see that it wasn't even five p.m. yet, despite how tired he felt.

 

"Boss -"

 

"After dinner, Tony."

 

Tony nodded and finally took the offered beer, draining almost half the bottle with one long swallow. Gibbs, he noticed, did the same.

 

"After dinner for the dying stuff," Tony said when they had taken seats in the living room. "But - what happened when you dealt with them?"

 

Gibbs blew out a breath and drained the rest of his beer. "Played the tape for Vance, showed 'em your shirt. They're off the team, maybe out of NCIS, depending on Vance's decision."

 

"Good," Tony murmured, then winced as he felt more than saw Gibb's inquiring eyebrow.

 

"Not good because of today," Tony said. "Good because I liked it when it was just us - after Vivian, before Kate. I'm a cop - used to working with a partner, not a team."

 

"About equal time for both, isn't it?"

 

Tony shrugged. "Still prefer a partner to a team. And you're the best I've worked with."

 

"Same here," Gibbs said quietly. "I made a team because the powers that be wanted a team, not because I did."

 

Tony quirked an eyebrow at him. "Think we can push for us to be partners again?"

 

"Won't be that big a push," Gibbs said. "Not after McGee and David. I'll remind Vance that I pick my own team."

 

Tony winced. "I picked McGee."

 

"No, I did. You recognized his skills, kept going back to him, but I was the one who asked for him." Gibbs took his bottle and Tony's to the kitchen, returned with two more. "And I blame Ziva more than McGee. He followed her lead."

 

Tony eyed him. "You're sure?"

 

"Sure as I can be. Told 'em not to report to me on Monday. Anything else is up to Vance."

 

Tony could only nod an acknowledgement, and for the briefest instant he wondered how it had come to this. How a solid team - him, Gibbs, Kate, and McGee - had fallen apart with the substitution of one variable.

 

But it wasn't just one variable, was it? It wasn't just Kate who was gone; Morrow had come and gone, and after him, Jenny Shepard. A lot of things had changed, and neither he nor Gibbs had taken the time to sort out those changes and adapt to them. They'd both assumed that things would continue on as they had been, and that bias had blinded them to the incremental changes that culminated in today's events.

 

He was still figuring out what to say next when the doorbell announced the arrival of pizza. While Gibbs went to the door, Tony went to the kitchen to set out plates and crushed red pepper, and pull the pizza wheel from the drawer because Marco's Pizzeria made the best pizza in the DC area but were fundamentally incapable of cutting all the way through the crust.

 

Minutes later, they were seated on the sofa, pizza and beer within easy reach. Tony waited until they'd each finished their second slice before he asked the question that had reverberated in his mind since their confrontation in the men's room.

 

"When did you die?"

 

Gibbs' expression hardened, but after a moment, he set his pizza aside and shifted on the sofa so he half-faced Tony.

 

"It was after Shannon and Kelly died," Gibbs said quietly. "I sat on a beach, stared down the barrel of a .45…and pulled the trigger."

 

"Jesus, Gibbs," Tony breathed. Then, because the moment demanded it, "Jethro."

 

Tony had known that the deaths of Gibbs' wife and daughter had affected him profoundly. He hadn't known just how deep that emotion had run.

 

"Woke up sometime later, half-convinced I'd dreamed it," Gibbs' voice had faded so much that Tony almost couldn't hear it. "But the blood on the sand and the empty shell casing proved I hadn't."

 

"I don't know what to say," Tony said finally.

 

"Don't need to say anything. To anyone," Gibbs added.

 

"I wouldn't," Tony said immediately, sincerely, then had to add, "Not just because they wouldn't believe me."

 

Gibbs' mouth twitched, just a little. "There is that."

 

Tony grabbed a third slice of pizza, ate it slowly to buy himself time to think. When he finished, Gibbs was waiting with the patience of the sniper he'd been. Tony blew out a breath.

 

"What changed, after?"

 

"I heal quickly, don't seem to age much."

 

A memory surfaced, and Tony swallowed. "The explosion on the _Bakir Kamir_ -"

 

"Shoulda killed me," Gibbs agreed.

 

"Glad it didn't," Tony said absently, his mind still whirling.

 

"Thanks, DiNozzo." Gibbs' tone dripped with sarcasm.

 

"You healed physically," Tony said, "but lost your memory. Whatever happened to you - us - doesn't fix everything."

 

"It fixes enough." Gibbs studied him for a long moment. "You're taking this better than I'd thought."

 

"I'm panicking on the inside, believe me." Tony blew out a breath. "Or maybe it'll hit me tomorrow. … You figure out how to make that damned buzzing go away?"

 

"No clue," Gibbs admitted.

 

Tony hadn't made detective for nothing - his intuition hit him with the answer like a thunderbolt. "It's because of me."

 

Gibbs' mouth twitched again. "Full of yourself, DiNozzo?"

 

"I didn't feel it in the break room, not until just before you came in. It's like a proximity alarm or something. You ever felt it before?"

 

Gibbs took a swallow of beer, a frown creasing his forehead, before shaking his head. "Once or twice, maybe, but never this intense. It went away after a while."

 

"Huh." Tony absorbed that, and then couldn't help smiling. "Means we've got radar for each other. Can't tell me that won't come in handy."

 

Then he yawned, his jaw popping as it stretched wide.

 

"Sorry," he mumbled.

 

"Bed." Gibbs rose and collected the beer bottles. "We'll talk in the morning."

 

"But it's early," Tony protested. A glance at the clock confirmed it was just after seven.

 

"I was wiped out the first day," Gibbs shot back. "Figure you are, too. Bed."

 

Tony couldn't argue that he wasn't, in fact, exhausted, so he gave up the attempt and turned toward the stairs. "Thanks, boss."

 

If Gibbs replied, Tony didn't hear it.

 

**

 

Tony woke for the third - or was it fourth? - time. A glance at the bedside clock - 12:35 - confirmed that only ten minutes had passed since the last time he'd checked.

 

He'd slept hard, but not long, waking from a nightmare of getting stabbed and dying… and then remembered that was a memory, not a dream. He had gotten stabbed, had died, and what the hell was he supposed to do now?

 

That had been 11:47, and now, almost an hour later, Tony had merely catnapped, dozing just to wake again when his mind wouldn't slow down enough to let him fall deeply asleep again. There were just too many questions bouncing around in his head like a pinball off the paddles.

 

He tossed and turned for a while longer - 12:43 - before rolling out of bed and pulling on boxers and a T-shirt. If Gibbs had milk, maybe a glass of that would help him sleep.

 

Downstairs, Tony saw light creeping under the door to the basement, and he crossed to the door, instinct prodding him to make sure Gibbs hadn't fallen asleep under his boat. Again.

 

He eased the door open. The raspy swish of sandpaper against wood told him that Gibbs was awake, and he padded down the stairs, bare feet slapping quietly against the wooden treads.

 

"Boss," he said, even though Gibbs must already be aware of his presence.

 

"Can't sleep?"

 

"Did you, the first night?" Tony countered, crossing to a sawhorse and perching on it in time to see Gibbs's wry grin.

 

"Spent it yelling at God - the universe - whatever you want to call it. How could He take my girls and then make me _this_?"

 

Whatever _this_ was, Tony added silently. Despite his boss' grin, he heard the pain in the words and reached for humor to try to soothe it.

 

"I always thought God has a sense of humor," he said. "I mean, look at the platypus."

 

Gibbs just glared at him, and he added, "I just never knew how cruel that humor could be. Sorry, Boss."

 

Gibbs's glare softened, just a little, and he snorted. "Never knew? In _this_ job?"

 

Tony laughed, relieved when Gibbs grinned with him. Gibbs put his tools away and crossed to the workbench to pour three fingers bourbon in each of two jars.

 

"Never had such obvious proof before," he said finally. Then, "Can we still get drunk?"

 

"Yeah." Gibbs offered him one of the jars. "Just takes more."

 

Tony eyed the jar. "How much more?"

 

"A bottle of 110 proof usually does it for me."

 

Tony stared at his boss. "A - bottle?"

 

"Sometimes two." Gibbs took a swallow from his own jar.

 

"Jesus." Tony was tempted to down all of it at once, just for curiosity's sake, but he held himself to a sip. If he wasn't going to get drunk on it, the least he could do was appreciate the flavor.

 

Gibbs regarded him silently for a moment before taking another swallow. "You need to yell at God?"

 

Tony thought about the question for a moment, then shook his head. "Don't need to yell at him when I've got someone I can ask questions."

 

"I don't have many answers."

 

Tony considered his feelings. "Maybe it's enough that I've got someone - that I'm not alone in this. Whatever this is. You didn't."

 

"Do now," Gibbs said. "Have to admit, I wasn't looking forward to facing this alone forever."

 

Tony grinned at him. "Sorry I'm not your type."

 

Gibbs remained sober. "Not my type. But I hope my friend."

 

Tony swallowed past a sudden lump in his throat. "Always, Boss."


	3. Chapter 3

When Jethro strode into the bullpen Monday morning, he allowed himself a moment's sorrow that David's and McGee's desks were bare - not just empty, but stripped of anything that suggested people had worked at them as recently as last week. David and McGee had once had the makings of good agents, or so he'd thought, and for just a moment, Jethro mourned that lost potential.

 

By the time he got to his desk, the moment had passed, and Jethro felt ready to face the day.

 

His day was interrupted almost before it began by Balboa's voice. "Caught the sonuvabitch."

 

"I heard." Jethro turned to face his fellow team leader over the partition dividing their desks. "Good work."

 

"The voice samples your team collected were the key," Balboa said.

 

"DiNozzo," Jethro corrected.

 

"Sorry?"

 

"DiNozzo got them."

 

"Right." Balboa paused for a moment, then ventured, "What happened with McGee and David?"

 

Jethro took a sip of his coffee. "Scuttlebutt hasn't made it around yet?"

 

"Can't trust scuttlebutt. They'd been with you for years - a record, if you don't mind my saying. So - what really happened?"

 

Jethro heard the concern behind Balboa's question, and it was only because of Balboa's sincerity that he answered as he did. "Tell me the top five rumors, and I'll debunk two of 'em."

 

"Those aren't great odds."

 

"Only game in town."

 

Balboa snorted. "Shoulda known better than to ask you. Seriously, Gibbs - whatever happened, I'm sorry."

 

Jethro nodded an acknowledgment, turned to sit, and then grimaced as the buzzing headache began. Tony was in the elevator, maybe one floor down.

 

They'd spent all of Friday and Saturday testing their abilities - Tony, being Tony, had insisted on slicing his palm with his belt knife just to watch it heal - and they'd established the minimum distance at which they could sense each other, as well as realized there was a directional aspect to it as well. It would, as Tony said, definitely come in handy on the job.

 

If the buzzing headaches didn't make them want to tear each other's heads off.

 

With the same mental discipline that characterized everything he'd done, Jethro pushed his awareness of the buzzing aside. He breathed through it like he'd breathe through an injury - slowly and steadily - and after a moment, his mind was clear enough to focus on turning his computer on and opening up his email account to the plethora of missives that had come in while he'd been away.

 

_214 unread emails._

 

Good God - when had email taken over the world, and why hadn't he noticed?

 

The elevator dinged, and a moment later, Tony's cheerful, "Morning, Boss," echoed through the bullpen.

 

"Morning," Jethro replied, then added, "Partner."

 

Tony grinned broadly, then sat at his desk and started up his computer. Jethro returned his attention to his own computer, skimming the list of emails for anything actually urgent, pausing when he saw the subject line that read only, _Personnel Assignments_. A glance confirmed the email was from Vance, so he clicked it open.

 

_Effective immediately, Special Agent Timothy McGee has been reassigned to the Cyber Crime Unit._

_Further, Probationary Agent Ziva David has accepted a transfer to the Los Angeles field office._

_Special Agents Jethro Gibbs and Anthony DiNozzo remain the core of the Major Case Response Team, and will request assistance from other agents and departments as necessary._

 

Short and to the point. Jethro approved. He heard Balboa's snort from the cubicle next to his.

 

"Says a lot without saying anything," Balboa muttered.

 

"What else does it need to say?" Jethro countered - and gave himself a mental slap on the head. Those were the kinds of questions he avoided asking on general principle - no need to fuel the scuttlebutt any further.

 

"Need?" Balboa repeated, and he stood to look over the partition at Jethro. Jethro kept his eyes firmly on the rest of his emails. "Maybe it doesn't _need_ to say anything else. But it would be nice to know what went down."

 

Jethro ignored him, flagging a handful of emails for deletion, and then opening one from the Court of Appeals of Virginia.

 

"Shoulda known you wouldn't say anything," Balboa said.

 

"Yes," Jethro agreed. "You should have."

 

"How about you, DiNozzo?" Balboa called across the bullpen. Jethro scowled, and only the fact that it was still an hour before the day officially started and the bullpen was empty save for the three of them kept him from giving Balboa a dressing-down.

 

"Fine, Balboa, how about you?" Tony called back.

 

"You gonna tell us why McGee and David are off the MCRT?"

 

"You think I know?" Tony said.

 

"I heard that Gibbs dragged them into Vance's office Thursday afternoon. Here it is Monday, and they're both off MCRT. Doesn't take a genius to figure there's a connection. I just want to know what the connection is."

 

"And you call yourself an investigator." Tony gave an exaggerated sigh and shook his head.

 

"What's that supposed to mean?" Balboa shot back.

 

"You've been around a while - you saw what it was like after Blackadder, before Todd. It was Gibbs and me, the Lone Ranger and Tonto, Batman and Robin, Holmes and Watson."

 

Before Balboa could say anything in response, Jethro said, "Swap rotation for us the week of the tenth?"

 

"What's up, Bo - Partner?" Tony rose and crossed the bullpen.

 

"I have to testify in the Williams case," Jethro said. "If I don't agree on a date, they'll just subpoena me."

 

"Thus breaking rule thirteen," Tony observed.

 

"Thirteen? Don't know that one," Balboa said.

 

"Never, ever, involve lawyers," Tony grinned when Jethro chorused the rule with him and Jethro found his own lips twitching in response.

 

"Um - it's in trial," Balboa said. "Lawyers are already involved."

 

"With _them_ ," Jethro said. "Not with me."

 

"Sure, no problem, if Tony can cover any of my team who are out that week."

 

"Sure thing," Tony said.

 

Jethro was typing his response to the court when his cell phone rang. He answered without looking up from his keyboard, and then all his attention was focused on the details the dispatch officer gave him.

 

"DiNozzo," was all Jethro had to say when the call was ended, and Tony grabbed gun and gear and met him at the elevator.

 

**

 

Twenty minutes later, they pulled up beside Avalon Playground on the access road off Eerie Street. Tony stepped out of the passenger seat, finally inured to Gibbs' driving so that he didn't even feel mildly nauseous - or, he acknowledged privately, maybe that was just another side effect of his death and rebirth - and approached the officer standing by the yellow tape surrounding the grassy park.

 

A small crowd had gathered, and if Tony had to guess, he'd say most of them were residents of the neighborhoods off Eerie Street and Morris Road. He brushed past them with murmured apologies and flashed his badge to the dark-skinned woman in the Metro PD uniform.

 

"DiNozzo, NCIS," he told her, jerked his head toward where Gibbs waited for Ducky and Palmer to get out of the medical examiner's wagon. "That's Special Agent Gibbs."

 

"Officer in charge is Klavins," the woman told him. "You'll find her just past those trees there."

 

"Thanks." Tony flashed her a smile gestured the others in the direction she'd indicated, passing from morning sun into shade as they entered the wooded area.

 

When they emerged from the copse, Tony followed Gibbs toward a tall blonde woman.

 

"Officer Klavins." Gibbs flashed his ID. "Gibbs, DiNozzo, NCIS."

 

"Never been happier to hand off a case in my life," Klavins said.

 

"How d'you know she's ours?" Gibbs asked.

 

"Military dependent ID," Klavins replied.

 

"Who found the body?" Tony asked.

 

"Jogger over there."

 

Tony followed Klavins' gaze to a young man in a Marine Corps T-shirt and shorts.

 

"We'll get to him," Gibbs said. "That all you can tell us?"

 

"Yes, sir. We secured the scene, ID'ed her as one of yours, and called it in. Waited for you after."

 

Gibbs nodded and Tony followed him to where Ducky and Palmer were examining the body.

 

The headless body, he corrected himself. A glance around revealed the head, blonde hair glinting in the morning sunlight, a couple of feet away from the body. Then he blew out a low whistle when he saw the sword lying near the woman's right hand.

 

He bent to inspect the sword while Gibbs dropped to his haunches beside Ducky. It appeared old - antique, even - though well-used. Tony was no expert, but something in the curve of the blade and the basket hilt suggested it might be military.

 

"Thinking the cause of death is obvious," Gibbs observed to Ducky.

 

"Apparently." Ducky removed the thermometer from the woman's body. "Time of death - shortly after midnight. Certainly not later than one this morning. Though this may not be the site of the murder - there's very little blood."

 

"Noted." Gibbs started taking photos. Tony took his cue and began a sketch of the crime scene. The grunt work would go more slowly with just the two of them, but the easy camaraderie he'd always felt with Gibbs made it go more smoothly, as well.

 

An hour later, crime scene photographed and sketched, the jogger's statement taken, and the body of Maria Suriano loaded into the van to be taken for autopsy, Tony climbed back into the passenger seat.

 

"I hate this part," he muttered.

 

"Never gets any easier," Gibbs agreed and started the engine.

 

Minutes later, they were ringing the doorbell of a small house with a neatly-kept lawn in Southeast Washington.

 

The door opened to reveal a man of Hispanic descent in the uniform of a Navy lieutenant. He glanced at them, and his expression, already sober, turned grim.

 

Gibbs introduced them, and Lieutenant Suriano swallowed hard.

 

"Is this about Maria?"

 

"Why do you think that?" Gibbs asked, his tone gentle.

 

"Because she wasn't here when I woke up this morning. Come in."

 

Suriano led them to the dining room and poured coffee for all three of them.

 

"When was the last time you saw your wife?" Gibbs asked.

 

"Last night, around eight," Suriano replied. "She said she was going out to meet a friend and that she might be late getting back. I went to bed a little after eleven, and she wasn't back. She's dead, isn't she?"

 

"Beheaded," Tony said, instinctively taking the role of bad cop to Gibbs' good cop.

 

"Beheaded? Good God." Suriano bent forward, resting his face in his hands. "What kind of monster would _behead_ someone these days?"

 

"That's what we're going to find out," Gibbs assured him. "Do you know who she was meeting?"

 

Suriano shook his head, and only then raised it from his hands to regard them. "I've only been posted Stateside four months. I haven't met all her friends yet."

 

"How long have you been married?" Gibbs asked.

 

Tony rose from his seat, casually wandered the living area, making a show of inspecting the various objects on display. It was a well-curated, if small, collection, he thought, including patches for the Frogmen, Underwater Demolition Teams and Seabees, a dozen sweetheart pins in a shadow box frame, WAVES posters and pins, and a handful of brass belt buckles.

 

"Five years in July."

 

"Kids?" Gibbs prompted.

 

"I wanted to wait until I was going to be Stateside for a while," Suriano replied, "and Maria wasn't chomping at the bit for them."

 

"Very nice collection," Tony observed as he returned to the living room.

 

"Thanks," Suriano said. "I can't take all the credit, though - Maria brought all the WAVE things and the Seabees patches with her."

 

"Any swords in the collection?"

 

Suriano blinked, apparently surprised by the question. "No. Why?"

 

"We found a sword near her body," Gibbs said. "It could be an officer's sword."

 

"I've never seen one."

 

Ten minutes later, the door closed behind them. Tony slid his sunglasses on and glanced at Gibbs as they headed for the car.

 

"What's your gut saying?"

 

"That we don't have enough information yet."

 

Tony grinned. "Ducky?"

 

"Ducky."

 


	4. Chapter 4

As it turned out, Ducky didn't have much information, either. Jethro supposed he shouldn't have expected anything else, not after finding only a few footprints at the crime scene that might have belonged to the killer.

 

_"It's as if she stepped out of the shower and said I think I'll go get my head lopped off. No defensive wounds. No material under her fingernails. No apparent recent sexual activity. She is, for lack of a better word, clean."_

 

The cut was clean, too, likely made in one stroke, with a long-bladed weapon as opposed to a saw or axe.

 

The only piece Ducky added to the puzzle was that the weapon that severed Maria Suriano's head very likely had a curved blade. Gibbs had nodded in immediate understanding when Ducky said that - the sword found beside her body had a straight blade.

 

So now, after a brief detour to pick up a Caf-Pow, Jethro headed for Abby's lab and found her looking at the blade lying on her work table.

 

"United States Navy Officer's Sword," she said. "Thirty-inch blade, very well cared for."

 

"Cared for?" Jethro picked up on her choice of words. "You're saying…?"

 

"It's authentic," Abby declared. "Or else it's the best replica ever made. The handle is actual bone, and worn from use. The scabbard's leather, and I sent a sample for carbon-14 testing, but based on the wear and the style, I'd say it dates to the mid-1800s."

 

Jethro nodded an acknowledgment and set the Caf-Pow beside her. "Fingerprints?"

 

"Lots, all belonging to our victim."

 

Jethro considered that. "So it was her sword?"

 

"That would be my guess," Abby said. "And whoever killed her wasn't interested it for its value."

 

"What's it worth?"

 

"Civil War swords can go for several hundred dollars, maybe a thousand in great condition - which this one is. Depending on Union or Confederacy, of course."

 

"Of course," Jethro agreed. "What about the footprints?"

 

"Skechers, men's size nine. Too common to try to trace. This pair is distinctive, though -" Abby called up an image on the screen. "They show wear along the outside heels, and there's a crack below the right toes. I can match the prints, even if I can't tell you where or when they were purchased. I have to say, Gibbs - this is the kind of crime scene I'd leave."

 

Jethro just regarded her, his expression neutral.

 

"If I were going to commit a crime, which I'm not," Abby continued. "No forensic evidence to speak of, all you have to do is dump the shoes someplace they're not likely to be found. A dumpster far away, or even better, the Potomac, or maybe the Anacostia - ooh! Or rent a boat, take it out into the middle of the bay, even the ocean, and toss the shoes overboard. It's the perfect crime."

 

"There's no such thing," Jethro told her, then leaned in to drop a quick kiss on her cheek. "Good work with what little was there."

 

**

 

Tony could tell by Gibbs' expression when he came off the elevator that neither Ducky nor Abby had had much to say. He allowed himself a little smile, hoping that what he'd found might be better.

 

"I've got good news and bad news, Boss."

 

Gibbs just looked at him, one eyebrow lifting ever so slightly. Tony grinned.

 

"Bad news - there's not a traffic camera anywhere near the Avalon Playground, so there's no way of tracking whoever killed Mrs. Suriano. The closest camera picked up her Camry just after eleven, but there's no guarantee her killer approached from the same direction, and without even a partial description of a vehicle…"

 

"Needle in a haystack," Gibbs muttered. "What's the good news?"

 

"I called Lieutenant Suriano to ask if there was anything unusual, anything that struck him as different, over the last week. He finally remembered that they went shopping at Iverson on Saturday, and she thought she saw someone she knew."

 

"Who was it?" Gibbs asked.

 

"He didn't know - she went after the person, but came back and said she was wrong."

 

"You don't think she was."

 

"I requested the security video," Tony said. "We'll know once we review it."

 

"How long before we have the video?"

 

"Caught the judge before his coffee fully set in, so the warrant's signed. I sent a probie to get it." Tony glanced at the clock on his computer. "An hour, depending on traffic."

 

"Why'd you send a probie?"

 

Tony grinned. He'd been expecting a rebuke, so the simple question was a relief. "We've got probies volunteering to help us out all over the place. Why wouldn't I take 'em up on it?"

 

Gibbs frowned. "Why are probies volunteering to help us?"

 

"Who wouldn't want to be part of the team with the best closure rate in the agency?"

 

"Tony."

 

"I'm only half-joking, Boss." Tony lowered his voice. "Most of them don't remember when two-man teams were common, so they think we're looking for replacements. And apparently your second-B-for-bastard reputation isn't enough to scare them off."

 

"Have to work on that." Then Gibbs leveled his gaze at Tony. "You want to replace them?"

 

Tony didn't have to think about it. "No, I told you. I was a cop for six years, then two years with just you - Blackadder notwithstanding. I can work with a team, but it's always felt … wrong."

 

Gibbs nodded once and turned toward his desk. Tony cleared his throat.

 

"Uh, Boss? Do you want to?"

 

"May not have a choice."

 

Tony swallowed, suddenly remembering what they'd become. "But - we're -"

 

"Finding who killed Maria Suriano," Gibbs snapped. "We'll deal with the rest later."

 

Tony nodded acknowledgment, shoving his concerns about concealing what they'd become from future members of their team aside for the moment.

 

**

 

Two hours later, while Gibbs reviewed Lieutenant Suriano's leave and earnings statements, Tony located footage of the Surianos at the Iverson Mall, followed Maria Suriano's movements until he found the man she'd seen - and who had seen her. Tony saw the moment of recognition pass between the two across the crowded mall, then watched Maria leave her husband's side to speak with the man briefly before they both went their separate ways.

 

The video wasn't of good enough quality that Tony could tell much about the man - medium height, dark blonde or light brown hair, clean shaven - but he isolated the footage and sent it down to Abby. Hopefully, she'd be able to clean the video up enough to get a viable image to run through facial recognition databases.

 

Now all he had to do was wait, which meant it was time to catch up on the emails that had come in while they were working the case.

 

One from McGee caught his attention. The subject line read, _Can we talk?_ There was no message.

 

Tony debated for a minute, but in the end, he could only reply, _Waiting for results from Abby. Now?_

 

He didn't get an immediate answer, decided McGee was caught up in something in Cyber Crime, and returned to the rest of the unread emails.

 

Two status reports on internal server issues went into the trash unread, as did an announcement about upcoming retirement planning meetings. Then he sent a reminder about an upcoming award presentation to Gibbs' calendar, labeling the meeting _Here Be Dragons_ so that Gibbs would know to avoid it - whether or not Gibbs was actually receiving an award this time. Finally, Tony moved on to the substantive emails.

 

Or started to - a shadow fell across his desk and he looked up to see McGee standing there, his expression torn between concern and contrition.

 

"McGee."

 

"I'm sorry."

 

"Rule -"

 

"Forget the rules," McGee said. "I'm sorry. We shouldn't have turned off the radio."

 

Tony regarded his former teammate levelly. "No, you shouldn't have. Apology accepted."

 

McGee's posture eased. "How are you? Gibbs said it was superficial, but there was a lot of blood on your shirt."

 

For a fleeting moment, Tony wished he could have been a fly on the wall at that meeting. He shoved the thought aside to answer, "You know the kind - shallow but lots of blood. Didn't even need stitches, just antibiotic cream and a bandage."

 

"That's good. That it wasn't worse, I mean."

 

"You're lucky it wasn't." Gibbs' voice made McGee flinch.

 

"Knock it off, Gibbs." Tony bit back a smile at McGee's shocked expression. "He apologized. I accepted. It's done."

 

Gibbs looked first at him, then at McGee, before shrugging. "Okay. Any luck on the video?"

 

"I'll - uh - catch you later, Tony." McGee half-waved and almost ran for the elevator.

 

"Found the guy she talked to. Abby's trying to ID him." Tony rose and crossed the bullpen to Gibbs' desk.

 

Gibbs looked up at him, and Tony lowered his voice. "Don't be too hard on McGee. In some ways it's as much my fault as his."

 

Gibbs' voice was equally low, if more intense, when he replied, "It's not your fault you got stabbed."

 

"Kind of is," Tony countered. "But I meant it's my fault McGee was in the position he was in. I kept going back to him for computer help. It's because of that we brought him into the team, put him in the field when he wasn't ready, and let him stay there when we shouldn't have."

 

Gibbs' eyebrows rose, though whether in inquiry or astonishment, Tony couldn't quite tell. "Mind explaining that, DiNozzo?"

 

Maybe both, Tony decided as he came around Gibbs' desk to perch on the end. It was closer than they usually got, but the position let him see over the partition to the part of the bullpen Balboa's team occupied. At the moment, it was empty, but Balboa's team could return at any time, and they didn't need to hear this.

 

"He had trouble keeping his heart out of it," Tony said. "Kate did, too - but she never impaired an investigation, never disobeyed orders. She knew when to let her head rule her heart."

 

Gibbs frowned at him, and Tony suppressed a sigh. "Fine, I'll spell it out. Remember when McGee shot that cop? You told him - hell, he should've known from FLETC - that he couldn't participate in the investigation and risk compromising the case. But he was still there, wouldn't let it go. We lucked out, got a good arrest anyway, but it could just as easily have gone the other way."

 

Gibbs' expression hadn't cleared, so Tony continued.

 

"And that's nothing compared to what happened with his sister," Tony said. "She showed up at his apartment at 2:30 in the morning, covered in blood. Does he call it in? No. Does he collect evidence? No. He lets her take a shower and then starts an investigation all by his lonesome, including lying to you and the director about it, and when you tell him to go home and leave it to us, he told you in so many words he wouldn't. He should've been out then - not just out of the field, out of NCIS."

 

Gibbs rubbed a hand over his face. "He resigned."

 

It was Tony's turn to frown. "Huh?"

 

"Jenny read him the riot act for that, told him he could be charged as an accessory. He handed over his badge and his gun."

 

"What happened?"

 

Gibbs looked away. "I ran after him and told him never to let anyone manipulate him like that again - including the director."

 

"And let him stay on the team." Tony kept any censure from his tone.

 

"Yeah." Gibbs blew out a breath. "You're right. He's not a field agent - he wasn't then, he's not now, and maybe he never will be. I screwed up."

 

"We screwed up," Tony corrected and held Gibbs' gaze until the other man nodded, once.

 

"We'll do better next time."

 

Tony grinned. "Yeah. We will."

 

Gibbs nodded and smiled in return, a faint upturn of his lips.

 

Tony's phone rang, and he answered without checking the display. "DiNozzo."

 

"Tony DiNozzo, come on down!" Abby said. "You're the next contestant on _We Find the Bad Guys._ "

 

Tony didn't even blink. "On the way, Abby."

 

Gibbs rose. "I'll get the Caf-Pow."

 

"She's probably had enough already," Tony said, "if her greeting's any indication."

 

Nevertheless, five minutes later, Tony watched Gibbs set a Caf-Pow at Abby's workstation. "What've you got, Abs?"

 

"Meet Javier Salazar." She nodded toward the plasma screen on the far wall.

 

Tony studied the two images displayed on it. On the left, enlarged from the surveillance video, a black and white shot of a man's head. Dark haired, dark eyed, clean shaven, there was something in his expression that reminded Tony of Gibbs, only colder.

 

The passport photo on the right did nothing to change that impression, even if the man's expression was softer in that photo than in the screen capture.

 

"Brazilian national," Abby continued. "Flew into Key West from Buenos Aires two months ago."

 

"And?" Gibbs prompted.

 

"And nothing," Abby said. "That's all I found. He's got no criminal record that Interpol knows about, hasn't flown anywhere since he got into Key West."

 

"Did you check trains and buses?" Gibbs asked.

 

"I tried, but security isn't as strict with those. Just because I came up empty doesn't mean he didn't use one."

 

"Road trip," Tony suggested. "Route 1 originates in Key West, goes all the way north to the Canadian border."

 

"However he got here, let's find out if he's still here," Gibbs said. "Get those photos to all the hotels, and issue a BOLO for him."

 

"Already done," Abby said. "At least the faxes to the hotels."

 

"On the BOLO, Boss." Tony headed for the elevator, his desk and the necessary forms.

 

**

 

Jimmy Palmer pulled on a mask and latex gloves, preparing to wash the latest body that had come into the NCIS autopsy theater - a dark-haired man with two gunshot wounds in his chest. It was a clean kill - but then, Jimmy reflected, Agent Gibbs always made clean kills. He could almost hear Dr. Mallard's voice in explanation, _A result of his sniper training, no doubt. Be thankful, my dear boy - it makes our job easier._

 

Or if not easier, at least neater.

 

Quickly, Jimmy removed the corpse's clothes, bagging them as evidence - though evidence of _what_ , he didn't know - before gathering what he'd need to wash the body. He was almost done when Dr. Mallard joined him.

 

"Excellent work as usual, Mr. Palmer."

 

"Thank you, Doctor," Jimmy replied, smiling behind his mask. Praise from Dr. Mallard wasn't as uncommon as praise from Agent Gibbs, but still he received it proudly when it did come.

 

Dr. Mallard washed up with his usual quick efficiency and joined Jimmy at the autopsy table, regarding their _guest_ with interest for a moment. Jimmy waited, wondering what Dr. Mallard might say to this one. Perhaps, _What did you do to run afoul of Jethro?_ Or maybe, _You really shouldn't have brought a sword to a gunfight, dear fellow._

 

To his surprise, Dr. Mallard simply picked up a scalpel. "Well, then, let's get started."

 

Dr. Mallard reached across the body, and Jimmy visualized the line of the cut he would make, starting from the shoulder, diagonally to the sternum mid-chest, and then down to the navel - as clean as any of Gibbs' kills.

 

Then a hand shot up and grabbed Dr. Mallard's wrist. Jimmy would never apologize for shrieking, nor for jumping back to stare in, yes, actual open-mouthed shock as their guest - _their corpse_ \- gently pushed Dr. Mallard's hand aside.

 

"Please don't." The voice was quiet, but no less authoritative for it, and somehow reminded Jimmy of Agent Gibbs despite the Hispanic accent. "I'll heal, but having body parts removed is always … uncomfortable."

 

"Doctor -" Jimmy said - or thought he did. His throat was dry enough that he didn't know whether he heard the words in his ears or only in his mind. Dr. Mallard was remarkably calm, considering what had just happened, and kept his focus on the man who held his wrist.

 

"Release me," Dr. Mallard said, with a _sang froid_ that would have put the stiffest of stiff-upper-lippers to shame.

 

After a moment, the man did so, using that hand to rub his chest - his chest, Jimmy saw, where the bullet holes had disappeared. Jimmy gasped, and then he was hyperventilating, his body's reaction finally catching up to his mind's refusal to comprehend what he was seeing.

 

"Mr. Palmer." He heard Dr. Mallard's words, but couldn't catch breath to respond, could barely look up at the other man. "Mr. Palmer! Control yourself!"

 

"T-trying -" Jimmy stammered. "But - dead -"

 

 _"Jimmy!"_ Dr. Mallard's fierce tone, as well as the unexpected use of his first name, cut through Jimmy's shock, and after a moment, he was breathing more or less normally, even as his mind retained a sort of numb detachment.

 

"My apologies," the man said, turning a regretful expression on Jimmy.

 

Jimmy could only nod as Dr. Mallard lowered his scalpel - but, Jimmy noted, he didn't put it back on the tray.

 

"Do you know them?"

 

"Them?" Dr. Mallard repeated.

 

"The men who killed me - one with silver hair, the other taller with brown hair." The man looked from Dr. Mallard to Jimmy, and Jimmy swallowed.

 

The man read their silence as an affirmation. "I wish to speak with them."

 

"Doctor," Jimmy said when Dr. Mallard remained silent. "Maybe we should - call them?"

 

"Perhaps, Mr. Palmer," Dr. Mallard said, but he was still studying their guest. "What do you want with them?"

 

"Just to talk, I assure you," the man said. "Besides - they are federal agents, and I am clearly not armed."

 

Dr. Mallard considered that for a moment before looking at Jimmy. "Will you fetch a pair of trousers, please, Mr. Palmer? Scrubs will do."

 

"Y-yes, Dr. Mallard." Some of Dr. Mallard's calm must have rubbed off on him, because he was able to get the item and bring it back without incident.

 

When Jimmy returned, their guest pulled on the scrubs as Dr. Mallard crossed to the phone.

 

"Will you come down here, please?" he said into it. "There's something you both should see."


	5. Chapter 5

"What did Ducky find?" Tony asked as he followed Gibbs from the elevator toward Autopsy.

 

"Didn't say," Gibbs replied. "Just said there's something we both should see."

 

Tony frowned. "Both of us?"

 

"Something wrong with your hearing, DiNozzo?" Gibbs glanced over his shoulder as he opened the door to Autopsy.

 

Tony froze, his gaze focused on the man in scrubs just visible at the edge of the glass window into Autopsy. "Boss."

 

His hand went to where his Sig should be and he scowled when he realized he wasn't wearing it. _It's the Yard. Why would I carry at the Yard?_

 

But the answer to that question was staring at him in the form of the man he and Gibbs had killed just hours earlier.

 

Gibbs turned back toward the window and Tony saw the stiffening in his posture as he, too, recognized the man they faced.

 

"The hell?" Gibbs muttered and stepped inside, Tony close on his heels.

 

Tony took in the scene at a glance. The man they'd killed, wearing medical scrubs, stood easily, his hands loose at his sides. Ducky and Palmer stood near Ducky's desk, apparently unharmed. At least the guy didn't have the sword he'd had earlier.

 

"You okay, Duck?" Gibbs asked.

 

"A bit startled," Ducky replied. "But no, neither of us are injured."

 

"My apologies for startling your companions," the man they'd killed said. "But we needed to talk."

 

"So talk," Tony said, moving to stand beside Gibbs.

 

"Best done in private," the man countered, and turned to Ducky and Palmer. He made an "after you" gesture toward the doors.

 

Ducky glanced toward Gibbs and Tony, and Tony understood the question in his eyes as if he'd asked it aloud.

 

"We'll be fine, Duck," Gibbs assured him. "Go on."

 

"Very well," Ducky said with what Tony considered to be remarkable aplomb. "I believe Mr. Palmer and I could do with a spot of tea."

 

"You will not raise any alarm, of course," the formerly-dead man said, his tone surprisingly courteous.

 

"But -!" Jimmy began.

 

Gibbs cut him off with a shake of his head. "Palmer."

 

Tony managed a grin at his friend. "It's okay, Gremlin. Ducky, you might want to spike his tea with some of Scotland's finest."

 

Ducky stared at him, aghast. "During working hours?"

 

"Take the rest of the day, both of you," Gibbs said. "I'll clear it with Vance."

 

"Excellent," Ducky said. "Come along, Mr. Palmer. It has been a most unusual morning."

 

Like Gibbs and the man they'd killed, Tony was silent while Ducky collected his hat and coat and escorted Jimmy from the room.

 

It wasn't until the elevator doors closed that Gibbs spoke. "Why aren't you dead?"

 

"The same reason you aren't," the man replied. "But I am forgetting my manners. I am Pedro Beltran Nunez de Lara."

 

"Leroy Jethro Gibbs," Gibbs said.

 

Tony glanced at him, and at his nod said, "Anthony DiNozzo, Junior."

 

"I am honored." The man - de Lara - sketched a bow, but when he straightened, his expression was serious. "Why did you shoot me?"

 

Tony stared at de Lara. "Obviously - you came at us with a _sword_."

 

"Of _course_ I did, it's what we _do_." De Lara regarded them as if they were particularly stubborn children. "But two against one is against the rules, so I ask again, why did you shoot me?"

 

Tony glanced at Gibbs, saw that his partner was as puzzled as he was, and flicked his gaze back to de Lara, taking the lead on the conversation as Gibbs studied their opponent. "What part of, you came at us with a sword, wasn't clear?"

 

"Huh." De Lara leaned back against an autopsy table, crossed his arms across his chest. "How old are you?"

 

"That's a personal question," Tony replied, "and rude on a first date."

 

"Fifty-eight," Gibbs said.

 

De Lara raised an eyebrow. "Since your first death?"

 

Tony swallowed, hard, as realization hit. De Lara was one of them - or that was the simplest explanation for his question. It was also, Tony realized, the explanation for the worsening of his buzzing headache.

 

He'd thought it was simply the stress of the case, but now that he thought back, it had only gotten worse when he and Gibbs arrived on the autopsy floor.

 

Gibbs' voice cut through his thoughts. "Nineteen years."

 

De Lara looked at Tony. "And your first death?"

 

Tony shrugged, hoping it looked casual. "Last Thursday."

 

De Lara's jaw dropped. "Truly?" He shook his head. "Babies, the both of you. Has anyone taught you the rules?"

 

Tony couldn't help the bark of laughter. "He's got about fifty of them."

 

De Lara didn't laugh. "I mean the rules of the Game."

 

"Game?" Tony prompted.

 

De Lara looked between the two of them. "Madre de Dios," he muttered.

 

"Speaking of Marias… Why'd you kill Maria Suriano?" Gibbs asked.

 

"She challenged me."

 

"Challenged you?" It was Gibbs' turn to prompt. Tony mentally ceded the interview to his boss - partner - and studied de Lara in turn, memorizing the man's mannerisms and appearance.

 

"Do you know nothing?" de Lara asked. He looked between the two of them, studying each of them in turn before finally focusing on Gibbs. "How did you die?"

 

"On a beach. Alone."

 

De Lara's eyes widened, but all he said was, "My sorrow for whatever took you to that point. But you never met another like you?"

 

"Not until him, last week." Gibbs nodded in Tony's direction.

 

"And you?" de Lara focused on Tony. "How did you die?"

 

"Interrupted a burglary in progress, got stabbed for my trouble."

 

"Well, that explains your ignorance." De Lara regarded them gravely for a moment. "There is no honor in taking your heads now - not when you are young and ignorant."

 

"Ignorant of what?" Gibbs demanded.

 

"Oh, everything." De Lara shot him a grin that might have been teasing. "Of your true nature, of the rules of the Game."

 

"Game - with a capital G?" Tony asked.

 

"There is only one Game, as there can be only one," de Lara said.

 

"Only one - of what?" Gibbs asked.

 

"Us, of course." De Lara huffed out a breath. "I've no desire to teach you, but I will tell you the rules. Pay attention - they are your life now."

 

Tony shifted uneasily, something about the man's tone carrying a warning as well as a threat, though he didn't know what either one might be.

 

"You are safe - you do not challenge - on holy ground. None of us will violate that rule," de Lara sounded confident. Then, "You challenge one on one - technically, the two of you facing me was a violation of that rule. I will let it go this once due to your ignorance."

 

"Sportsmanlike of you," Tony muttered, though a shiver ran down his spine.

 

"A courtesy only," de Lara said. "Finally, challenges are to the death - you challenge, and you fight until one of you loses his head. That is the only way we can be killed."

 

"And you challenged Maria Suriano," Gibbs said.

 

"Were you not listening?" De Lara glared at him, and Tony would have been hard pressed to decide whether his glare or Gibbs' was more intimidating. " _She_ challenged _me._ She was… perhaps not young, but certainly inexperienced, and I told her to wait a while before challenging, but she insisted, named a time and place."

 

"And you showed up." Gibbs' tone was flat. For a moment, Tony almost pitied de Lara.

 

"Of course." De Lara sounded unconcerned. "Had I not, she would have told others that I am a coward. I could not allow that."

 

"Of course you couldn't," Tony muttered. The "rules" of de Lara's "Game" sounded barbaric to him, and he didn't bother trying to hide his opinion.

 

De Lara shrugged. "Such a rumor would bring too many others to my door, and I have no wish to be bothered just now."

 

"Why not?" Gibbs demanded. "You got pressing business elsewhere?"

 

"At the moment, I am exploring," de Lara said, and his casual tone grated on Tony's nerves. "It has been a long time since I have been to the United States, and I wished to see how it has changed."

 

Tony's cop instincts whispered that this man might be responsible for other deaths, and if so, he had an obligation to investigate. The investigation began with one question. "How long?"

 

"The last time I was here, you were in the middle of a war," de Lara said, as though that narrowed it down at all. His next words sent a chill down Tony's spine. "A war between the various states. I visited this very city, in fact."

 

"Did you," Tony responded more by rote than any real desire to continue the conversation. He had a sick feeling that he knew what de Lara was going to say next.

 

"A theater, in fact," de Lara said. "Such a surprise when I found out your president was in attendance at the performance. Such a shame he was shot that night."

 

Tony swallowed. It was one thing to read about such things in a history book, but to talk to someone who'd actually been there…. Or had he? Maybe de Lara was as good at lying as Tony was.

 

Regardless, Gibbs appeared to be taking the man seriously, so he would, too. For now.

 

"What do you suggest we do?" Gibbs asked, and Tony understood the uncertainty behind it. They were out of their league here.

 

"About what you are?"

 

Gibbs gave a half-shrug. "Thinkin' mostly about the fact that you killed someone, and how we're supposed to let you walk away."

 

De Lara smiled, though there was no humor in it. "Why must you do anything other than what you have done? You investigated, found a suspect, and when that suspect resisted arrest, you killed him. What more needs to go in your report?"

 

Much as Tony hated to admit it, "He's got a point, Boss. Unless you want to try explaining all of this to Vance."

 

Gibbs snorted, but his eyes remained on de Lara. "Doesn't sit right, letting a murderer walk away."

 

"It wasn't murder," de Lara said. "It was the Game - she challenged me, as I said. By the by - I'll be wanting my sword when I leave."

 

"It's very nice," Tony blurted. "Toledo steel, excellent craftsmanship."

 

De Lara smiled, and this time there was some recognition in it. "You know swords?"

 

"A little," Tony said. "My mother's family had a number of antiques, and I picked up a little bit about a lot of things before she died."

 

"It's evidence," Gibbs said.

 

"Evidence goes missing sometimes," Tony countered and was rewarded by a full-on Gibbs glare. "What?"

 

"You want to let him walk out of here with his sword?"

 

"No harm in keeping things civil," Tony replied. "Especially if I'm asking him for a favor."

 

"Favor?"

 

"Stereo," Tony quipped as the other two men chorused the word. "Yeah, a favor. There's apparently more to this - to being …"

 

"Immortal," de Lara said when he hesitated too long.

 

Tony nodded an acknowledgment and continued, "…than we could've guessed. A guide, or a teacher, wouldn't be a bad thing."

 

He watched Gibbs consider that in the space between heartbeats and nod. At the same time, de Lara was shaking his head.

 

"I am no teacher. But -" he paused for a moment, frowning. "A deal, yes? I leave here with my sword, and you get the name and number of another of us, one who does take in strays from time to time."

 

Tony met Gibbs' gaze. Ten years of working with each other allowed them to have entire conversations with the barest flicker of an eyelid, lift of an eyebrow, or twitch of a lip. Gibbs wasn't happy with this particular conversation, Tony knew, but after a moment, he gave a millimeter of a nod, then turned and left the room.

 

"He's getting your sword," Tony told de Lara. "You want to wear those out of here?"

 

"I'd prefer not to, but I understand the clothes I was wearing are not fit to be seen in public."

 

That was the politest way of saying _bullet-ridden and soaked in blood_ Tony had ever heard of. What he said aloud was, "We're about the same size. You can have the spare set I keep here. Back in a couple."

 

**

 

 _Shoulda made DiNozzo explain this to Abby._ Jethro stabbed the call button for the elevator, then let out a silent sigh at the thought that followed. _She'd never let him get away with what I need to do. Hell, she might not let me get away with it._

 

Minutes later, he strode into Abby's lab, his footsteps drowned in the driving music she liked to play. He crossed behind where she was absorbed in studying a readout on her monitor, found the remote control, and turned the music down to something a little less than deafening.

 

She whirled, ready to fight, but relaxed almost immediately when she recognized him. "Gibbs! I was just about to call you."

 

"What've you got, Abs?" he asked because he was expected to, and to buy himself a little more time to figure out how to explain what he needed and why.

 

"I found trace - like _minute_ , even I almost missed them - amounts of blood on the blade you brought in from Javier Salazar," she said. "I'm not sure there's enough to run a DNA match to see if it's Maria Suriano's."

 

 _Now or never._ He took a breath, and met her gaze seriously. "Abby, I need you to do something for me."

 

"Of course, Gibbs! Whatever you need." Her almost childlike faith in him was humbling at the best of times, but now it just made him uncomfortable.

 

"I need you to give me the sword."

 

She frowned. "For what?"

 

"It's a long story - and one I'll tell you, along with Ducky and Palmer, tonight." Jethro felt his mouth tighten into a frown, more because he realized he'd have to share the full truth with all three of them. With DiNozzo in the know, that made five. _Far too many to keep a secret…like I have a choice._ "It's … complicated. But I need Salazar's sword, and I need it officially to look like it's gone to Evidence."

 

"But - Gibbs. Why?" Her eyes were wide, not with wonder but with shock at what he was asking her to do.

 

Jethro met her gaze steadily. He'd never deserved her hero-worship, but now he feared to lose even her basic trust. "You're not going to let me get away without answering, are you?"

 

"No. Not for this." Abby swallowed, hard. "You're asking me to tamper with evidence. I can't believe you're asking me to do that."

 

"I have a really good reason, Abs."

 

"Spill."

 

"This case is more than we thought it was," Jethro began, choosing his words carefully. "We thought it was just a murder - an odd one, but just a murder."

 

"And you caught the killer - no, you killed the killer."

 

"We did. And that's what the report will say. There won't be a trial, no need for the sword as evidence."

 

"There's something you're not telling me. I hate it when you don't tell me things."

 

"I have a good reason."

 

"You said that before, and I still haven't heard it."

 

Jethro considered for a moment, running various options through his mind. He could wait until Abby left and then steal the sword - but if he were going to do that, he should've done it before telling her he wanted it. _Forgot Rule 18._

 

But he'd rushed in and blurted more than he should, and now he was dancing along the edges of Rules 14, 15, and 28, and about to shatter Rule 4. He blew out a breath.

 

"I'll show you part of it now. The rest waits until later, with Ducky and Palmer. Deal?"

 

Abby nodded, far too seriously for Jethro's liking. "Deal."

 

With a grimace, he pulled out his knife and, before he could reconsider, slashed the blade across his thumb.

 

"Gibbs!" Abby grabbed for his hand, and he yanked it out of her reach, even as he let his knife fall to her table.

 

"Wait, Abs," he told her. With his other hand, he pulled the cut on his thumb wide, letting the blood flow freely. He angled it so she could see clearly. "You see that?"

 

"You _cut yourself_ , Gibbs! Why -?!"

 

"Just wipe it off, will you? No sense bleeding all over."

 

Abby quickly pulled on a pair of gloves and grabbed some paper towels to wipe his thumb clean … and then stare, dumbfounded, at the unblemished skin she revealed.

 

"Gibbs -"

 

"This is part of the good reason, Abs," he told her.

 

Still, she stared at his thumb.

 

" _Abby_."

 

She shook herself, then raised her eyes to his. "The rest later, okay?"

 

She nodded slowly. "Okay. But this had better be good, Gibbs!"

 

He couldn't help smiling. "It is. At least mostly." A thought occurred to him. "Don't mention this to anyone, okay? Not even Ducky or Palmer, not until after we all talk tonight."

 

"Scout's honor." She held up two fingers in a V-for-Victory sign.

 

"Wrong fingers, Abs." Jethro demonstrated the proper gesture, then grabbed the sword. "Thank you."

 

When he left, she was still staring at the bloody paper towels she held, muttering something he was glad he didn't quite understand.

 

**

 

By the time Tony ran to the bullpen, grabbed shirt, trousers, and shoes from his desk and gotten back to Autopsy, Gibbs, too, had returned with de Lara's sword … and was handing over cash from his own wallet?

 

"It's all I have on me," Gibbs was saying.

 

"I have started over with less," de Lara said. He examined his sword briefly, then shucked out of the scrubs he'd been wearing and pulled on the clothes Tony had brought, including the sneakers he kept for emergencies - or truly disgusting crime scenes.

 

Then he crossed to Ducky's desk, found a pen and paper. A moment later, he offered the paper to Gibbs. "I wish you both luck. I hope we never meet again."

 

De Lara turned toward the door, and Tony called out after him. "What do we get?"

 

De Lara paused. "Get?"

 

"You said it's a game, right? What do we get if we win?"

 

"Only one will win the Prize."

 

And then de Lara strode out of the autopsy theater, his sword somehow concealed beneath the clothes he wore.

 

Tony watched him go, torn between running after him to demand more of an explanation than the platitude he'd just given and letting himself sink to the floor and babble like a lunatic. Either option, he thought, would be equally productive.

 

"I'm not happy about this, Tony." Gibbs' voice brought him back to the present and kept his feet under him.

 

"I'm not, either, Boss, but what else could we do?"

 

Gibbs' silence was answer enough. After a moment, Tony nodded toward the paper Gibbs held. "You gonna call him?"

 

"Maybe. We should talk to the others first."

 

"The others?" Tony asked, then the rest of what Gibbs had said hit him. "Wait - you want to _talk_?"

 

"This -" Gibbs gestured between them, then toward the door where de Lara had exited "- has me turned around almost as badly as McGee was when he started with us."

 

Tony stared at him for a moment. "Bullshit."

 

He was rewarded by Gibbs' eyebrows shooting toward his hairline. "Bullshit?"

 

"Yeah, bullshit. There's no way that Leroy Jethro Gibbs was ever, in any way, shape, or form, as awkward as McGeek."

 

Gibbs looked at him for a moment, then smiled - no, he _grinned_. "Story for another time, DiNozzo."

 

"Right." Tony didn't know whether to be glad or concerned that Gibbs was, apparently, willing to share stories of his past with him. He shook off the feeling, and said, "Now we just have to deal with Ducky and Palmer."

 

He was surprised when Gibbs winced. "And Abby." Tony shot him a surprised look, and he added, "You didn't think she'd let evidence go without questions, did you?"

 

"I thought you'd refuse to answer, like you always do."

 

"It's Abby." Gibbs' expression turned fond. "And I didn't take time to get her a Caf-Pow."

 

"That would make her less inclined to go along with you." Tony considered for a moment. "Dinner at my apartment. We can talk, and I've got a great Italian place I can order from."

 

"I'll tell Abby. You call Ducky and Palmer."


	6. Chapter 6

Jethro had to admit that the talk with Ducky, Palmer, and Abby had gone better than he'd expected.

 

Ducky's usual calm hadn't wavered once, and after a demonstration of their healing from both him and Tony, Palmer and Abby had seemed more curious about the mechanics of it than put off by the reality of it - although Abby had to be stopped more than once from going off on tangents.

 

All of them had straightened, however, when Jethro pointed out that he and Tony might need their professional help.

 

"Either one of us could be hurt on the job," Jethro reminded them. "Having someone with medical influence will help a lot."

 

"And the occasional doctoring of evidence," Abby put in. Jethro had glanced at her, concerned, but she only smiled. "It's you and Tony, Gibbs. Of course we'll help. Right, Duckman?"

 

"Of course," Ducky agreed and met Jethro's gaze. "Whatever you or Anthony need."

 

Palmer had asked the other important question. "Who else knows?"

 

"Nobody," Tony said. He didn't even glance at Jethro when he continued, "We probably wouldn't have told you, at least not yet, but … things happened."

 

"Understatement," Palmer muttered, and Tony laughed.

 

"Yeah, well - not sure we understand everything yet, so we can't explain it to you."

 

"Will you, when you do?" Ducky asked, his expression more serious than Jethro remembered seeing it in a long time.

 

Jethro held his gaze. "Yeah, Duck. We will."

 

And that had been that. Jethro smiled to himself - he might have a less-than-stellar track record at choosing wives, but he sure chose excellent friends.

 

Now, the morning after their conversations with de Lara, then the others, Jethro strode into the bullpen, surprised to find Tony already there.

 

"Morning, Boss - Partner." Tony shook his head. "Gonna take a while to break the habit."

 

"Don't care what you call me, DiNozzo," Jethro replied, hoping the unspoken _we'll work together just the same_ was understood.

 

"Okay, Honey Buns."

 

Through sheer force of will, Jethro managed to swallow his coffee instead of spewing it over his desk. He glared at Tony, whose serious expression was betrayed by the mischievous light in his eyes.

 

"Maybe not Honey Buns. Sugar Lips?"

 

"Either one - or any remotely connected variation - will be met with retaliation. Are you prepared for that?"

 

"Maybe. Have to time it for when the bullpen's full, though, see how many we can shock."

 

Jethro hid a chuckle behind another sip of coffee. He swallowed, then, "What's got you in so early?"

 

"Research."

 

Jethro frowned. "We have a case I don't know about?"

 

"Not exactly." Tony's expression lost all humor and, after a glance around the bullpen, he jerked his head in a _come here_ gesture.

 

Jethro did, coming behind Tony's chair to look over his shoulder. He blinked at the images of various types of swords displayed on Tony's computer screen.

 

When Tony spoke, his voice was lower and more serious than usual. "Figured we should be prepared. De Lara's not going to be a problem, at least for a while, but we don't know how many more players there are."

 

"The game he talked about." Jethro studied the images, marveling at the variety of bladed weapons displayed there. He was familiar with some - officers' swords, thanks to his military service, and katanas, thanks to a popular culture that couldn't get enough of them - but others were completely foreign to him.

 

After a moment, he said, "Just having it's not enough. Have to know how to use it, too."

 

"They teach swordfighting in the Marines?" Tony's tone was only half-joking.

 

"Not since the nineteenth century," Jethro replied, studying the display more closely. One of the entries caught his eye, and he stabbed it with a fingertip. "Replica?"

 

"Yeah, most of them are. They come with a blunt edge, but I'm sure we can figure out how to sharpen them."

 

Jethro was already shaking his head, his gut screaming at him. "No. I want a real blade, one that we can trust, one that's lasted."

 

"Those'll be more expensive," Tony warned.

 

"Worth every penny if we keep our heads," Jethro said, and if that wasn't the strangest sentence he'd ever uttered, it was definitely in the top five.

 

"Still doesn't teach us how to use them." Tony glanced up as the elevator door dinged and Balboa stepped off. Tony nodded in response to Balboa's wave, then lowered his voice. "Gonna have to learn sometime."

 

Jethro straightened. "Thought about it overnight," he said. "And you should call the number de Lara gave us. Maybe see him while I'm testifying next week."

 

Tony nodded. "Will do - and see if I can get time off instead of covering Balboa's team."

 

**

 

Three mornings later, Tony found himself walking down the familiar streets of Manhattan. He might've been born in Long Island, but he'd spent plenty of time in Manhattan as a child, and thanks to his mother's passion for antiques, he knew where some of the best antique stores were. Or at least had been, he corrected himself.

 

A glance at his cell phone told him it was a few minutes past ten. Certainly a reasonable hour to call a stranger. He tapped in the number he'd memorized and waited.

 

Tony supposed he shouldn't be surprised the call went straight to voice mail. A deep, masculine voice spoke.

 

"Leave a message, and I'll get back to you."

 

 _Are all immortals Gibbs-like?_ Tony bit back a grin and spoke into the phone. "My name's Tony DiNozzo. Pedro Beltran Nunez de Lara gave me this number and said you might be able to help me out. I'm in New York for a couple of days. Please call when you get this. Any time."

 

He recited his number and ended the call. Nothing to do now but wait, and scope out swords for him and Gibbs.

 

They'd discussed the requirements for their swords - length, weight, one- or two-handed - and Tony had permission to spend up to a thousand dollars on a sword for Gibbs, and privately added half that amount again, never to be mentioned to Gibbs, if he found the perfect sword. He didn't hold out much hope for that, but he'd allow for the possibility.

 

So he started at a shop specializing in military collectibles, and spent a pleasant half hour chatting up the old man at the counter, learning more about swords in that time than he'd learned in all the hours he'd spent reading on the internet. Then again, there really was no substitute for handling one.

 

Tony tried several, including an officer's sword uncomfortably like the one Maria Suriano had owned, before thanking the proprietor for his time and snapping pictures of that and one other sword to send to Gibbs.

 

"You're puttin' a lot of thought into this," the old man observed.

 

Tony grinned easily. "It's a gift. I want to get it right. D'you know anyone else in the city who has a decent selection of sabers?"

 

"You might try MacLeod's place, over on 53rd. He's got a few."

 

"Thanks. If I put a deposit on that one," he nodded at the one that reminded him of Maria Suriano's blade, "will you hold it for me for a couple of days?"

 

"Sure thing."

 

A few minutes later, the transaction completed, Tony stepped out into the midday sun and started toward 53rd Street. He found the shop easily enough, a ground-floor unit with _MacLeod Antiques_ painted on the window set in the door.

 

Tony pushed the door open and stepped inside, moving off to one side to allow his eyes to adjust to the change in ambient light. It didn't take long, and Tony was surprised to see a thoughtful layout, arranged loosely in room-groupings, rather than the jumble he'd learned to expect when he was a child.

 

Two steps further into the shop, and that incessant buzzing started up at the back of his skull again. Tony glanced back toward the door, wondering whether his partner had finished testifying early.

 

"Gibbs?"

 

The door stayed shut, and, frowning, Tony turned back toward the shop interior, only to be brought up short by a cool sharp edge against his neck.

 

"I am Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod." The voice sounded strangely familiar, but at the moment, Tony was more focused on the sword the speaker held at his throat than where he'd heard the voice before.

 

Tony held his hands away from his sides in an _I'm unarmed_ gesture, and met the hard, dark gaze of the man holding a long-bladed katana at his throat.

 

"Tony DiNozzo, and I'm here to buy, not die," Tony said, and the other man frowned, clearly puzzled. Recognition snapped into place, and he added, "Are you the Duncan that Pedro Beltran Nunez de Lara referred me to? The one I've left messages for?"

 

The other man - Duncan MacLeod, apparently - lowered his sword, but his expression was still wary. "Why did de Lara give you my number?"

 

"He said you sometimes take in strays," Tony said. "Which, come to think of it, is kind of insulting. What I'm hoping he meant was that you'll teach us what we need to know now that we're immortal."

 

MacLeod's eyes narrowed. "When was your first death?"

 

"Two weeks ago Thursday." Tony kept his tone casual, and MacLeod matched it, just nodding once.

 

Then, "You said _us_. How many, and how old?"

 

"Just one, my boss - partner, sorry, that's still new. And he's around sixty -" Tony broke off at MacLeod's grin, and frowned, running back over their conversation. "Oh. You mean his first death. It was 1991."

 

MacLeod stared at him long enough that Tony started to feel uncomfortable.

 

"I say something wrong?"

 

"How has he been immortal that long and not learned the rules?"

 

"No other immortals around at the time," Tony said. It was true enough, and MacLeod had no need to know exactly how Gibbs had died the first time. "Or since, for that matter. The only reason we know as much as we do is because we ran into de Lara in the middle of a case."

 

"You're cops?"

 

"NCIS. Naval Criminal Investigative Service." Tony outlined the events of the case, ending with, "It still doesn't sit right that we let de Lara walk away, even though it was the best thing to do."

 

"Sometimes there are no good choices," MacLeod agreed. Finally, he turned away, toward the cash register. He stowed his sword beneath the counter, then looked back at Tony.

 

"All right," MacLeod said. "How much did de Lara tell you?"

 

**

 

Jethro looked up when DiNozzo strode into the bullpen Thursday morning, frowning slightly when he realized how close the other man had gotten before the buzzing sensation settled in the back of his skull.

 

He rose, coffee in hand, and crossed to DiNozzo's desk. "When did you get back?"

 

"Yesterday afternoon."

 

Jethro felt one eyebrow rising. "Good trip?"

 

"Better than I expected." DiNozzo - Tony - glanced around, lowered his voice. "He's willing to train us. Even better, he'll be here the beginning of the week."

 

Jethro took a swallow of coffee, considering Tony's words. "That's not all."

 

Tony ducked his head, his expression somewhat sheepish. "He's going to give a knife-fighting class for all agents. It's a good cover for why he's here, and it gives us a reason to use the gym after hours."

 

"You cleared it with Vance?"

 

"Wasn't hard." Tony shrugged. "Not after my brush with a knife-wielding pothead. Our private training will be sword fighting."

 

"Speaking of," Jethro prompted.

 

Tony grinned. "I got an Italian cavalry officer's sword, late 1880s. MacLeod - that's the guy's name, Duncan MacLeod - said its longer length works well for me because I'm over six feet."

 

"Find anything for me?" Jethro asked.

 

"He's bringing a few possibilities," Tony replied. "I told him you wanted me to get one for him, and he shut that down pretty quickly."

 

"You let a stranger shut you down?"

 

"Only because he's right. The sword has to feel right for you - not for me, not for him, even though you're the same height."

 

"And if someone challenges me before he gets here?" The words sounded strange as he spoke them, even though Jethro had more or less accepted de Lara's description of their new reality while Tony was away.

 

"It's not likely," Tony replied. "Especially since we're together most of the time. Challenges are -"

 

"One on one," Jethro finished. "I remember."

 

Tony's mouth quirked. "A few new rules to add to your collection, eh, Partner?"

 

Jethro grunted. "Won't be quoting these to anyone."

 

"Yeah." Tony sobered. "I can live with that - the challenge, the rules - it's the rest that freaks me out sometimes."

 

"Only sometimes?"

 

Tony chuckled. "Most of the time. You done testifying?"

 

Jethro let the subject drop. "Yep. Jury's been deliberating since yesterday."

 

"No new case?"

 

"Not yet."

 

Tony gave an exaggerated sigh. "Fine. I'll pull some of Balboa's cold cases, start reviewing them."

 

"Good idea." Jethro turned back to his own desk and the stack of cold cases waiting for him.

 


	7. Chapter 7

Jethro knew most of his co-workers would call him impatient - and he could be, when he was trying to catch a killer and people, whether co-workers or witnesses, weren't giving him the information he needed in a timely manner.

 

But he'd been a sniper, and snipers were nothing if not patient. Well, accurate, too, but that went without saying.

 

So it was with the ease of long practice that he pushed his anticipation aside. Duncan MacLeod would arrive when he did, not a minute sooner, and there was nothing Jethro could do to alter that outcome.

 

Tony, however, didn't have that practice, or the training that led to developing it, and he was doing a lousy job of trying to look busy. They'd caught a case Thursday afternoon that had them pulling double shifts through the weekend, and though they'd closed it in the early hours of Sunday night, there were still reports to be written and forms to be completed.

 

Jethro suspected that if he were to look over Tony's shoulder, he'd see one or two words on the screen, at best. He debated attempting to nudge the other man into actual work but reminded himself that Tony was a good cop and would get the job done - including the requisite report.

 

The low tone of Tony's desk phone interrupted Jethro's thoughts, and he focused on his partner as Tony answered the call.

 

"Yeah, Henry?" Tony listened for a few seconds. "No, he's expected." Another pause. "I'd hope he's got knives. He's here to teach a knife fighting class. … Yes. Send him up."

 

Tony hung up and turned to Jethro and mouthed the words, "You feel him?"

 

Jethro focused on the buzzing sensation at the base of his skull, frowning. It did feel differently than it normally did, though he wasn't certain he could put the difference into words. He nodded, once, just as the elevator dinged and its door opened.

 

Jethro studied the man who emerged - thirty years old or so, of a height with Jethro himself, long dark hair pulled back into a ponytail, and dark eyes that seemed far older than his apparent age. Which, Jethro admitted privately, was only to be expected if the man were immortal.

 

The man scanned the room quickly, pausing to nod briefly when his gaze met Jethro's, then his lips turned up slightly as he spotted Tony and crossed the room with his hand outstretched.

 

"DiNozzo." The man's voice was a deep baritone, friendly enough for a man who might just as easily challenge either one of them to a duel that could only end in death.

 

"MacLeod." Tony stood and shook his hand.

 

Now that MacLeod had cleared the cubicles, Jethro saw that he wore a long-sleeved white button-down shirt tucked into dark jeans and carried an elongated duffel bag slung over his shoulder - presumably holding the knives Tony had mentioned.

 

MacLeod moved like a fighter, Jethro thought, and found himself looking forward to sparring with the man someday. Maybe even during the knife-fighting class.

 

Then Tony had come from behind his desk and turned to Jethro.

 

"Director's waiting," he said. "Introductions later."

 

"Best not to keep him waiting," Jethro agreed before turning back to his desk and the report he needed to finish.

 

**

 

"I get the impression your director doesn't like you."

 

Tony couldn't help snorting at MacLeod's observation as they emerged from the meeting with Vance. "More that he doesn't like how I work. Can't argue with the results, but doesn't like the methods."

 

"He thinks you should be more by the book?"

 

"Something like that," Tony agreed, turning toward the elevator that would take them to the gym. "The only reason he agreed to let you teach this class is because I got stabbed on the job, and having some defensive tactics might have prevented that."

 

MacLeod waited until they'd stepped onto the elevator and the door had closed before asking, "By stabbed, you mean -?"

 

"Yeah. Killed. Kind of a shame about that, really - Ziva would've loved to take your class."

 

"Ziva?"

 

"She was a team member, before she let me get killed."

 

"Does she know you died?"

 

"No." The elevator doors opened and Tony gestured to his left. "Only Gibbs knows, and him only because he was already immortal."

 

"Can't imagine doing what you do as an immortal," MacLeod observed in a low voice as they approached the door to the gym. "Not in modern times, anyway. Too many records - fingerprints, DNA."

 

"I didn't choose it as an immortal," Tony said, equally quietly, and wondered that he could say such things as if they were completely normal. "I chose it because I'm good at it."

 

This late in the afternoon, only a double handful of people were in the gym, scattered at various weight and cardio stations. The boxing ring was empty, as was the sparring mat.

 

"Locker rooms are there if you want to change," Tony gestured. "Class starts in twenty."

 

"Why should I change?" MacLeod asked.

 

Tony blinked. "Because you might not want to get good clothes sweaty?"

 

MacLeod grinned. "I won't be the one sweating."

 

"Right. Well - I'm gonna change." If only to save his Armani suit from being ruined. "Be right back."

 

"Take your time - as long as it's not more than twenty minutes."

 

Tony rolled his eyes and started for the locker room.

 

Less than five minutes later, he returned to the gym proper to see MacLeod apparently deep in conversation - with Gibbs. Who was already dressed in a sweatshirt and shorts. Tony blinked, frowned, and looked back over his shoulder at the door to the locker room.

 

"How the hell did he get dressed out and in here and I didn't see him?" He muttered, then had to chuckle at the answer his brain supplied him, in Abby's voice. _Because! He's Gibbs._

 

Tony couldn't argue with that, so he crossed to join them.

 

Someone - presumably MacLeod, or maybe Gibbs - had pulled a weight bench to the edge of the mat and laid out a row of knives in different styles and lengths, including a penknife, a tactical knife, a medieval dagger, even a Japanese tanto.

 

"I have other blades," MacLeod was saying, "but these are a good start for the class."

 

Gibbs picked up the penknife, shifted it in his hand, made a few test swipes and thrusts. "Great balance for a penknife."

 

"Are we using these in the class?"

 

Tony jerked at the voice, but, yes, that was McGee standing there in gym clothes, an apprehensive expression on his face.

 

"Eventually," MacLeod answered.

 

"What're you doing here, McGee?" Gibbs asked. To Tony's ear, it was a simple question devoid of any particular inflection, but McGee flushed.

 

"Learning how to be a better agent," he said, and Tony concealed a grin. Tony wouldn't admit it aloud, but he'd been afraid that the incident at Royal Woods might have shaken his former probie's confidence forever. Despite what had happened to him, Tony couldn't find it in himself to wish McGee back to the stuttering mess he'd been in their early acquaintance.

 

"You think you're getting back in the field?" Gibbs asked, again without inflection.

 

"I think, if I do, I want to be better than I was," McGee answered.

 

And that was all that needed to be said, Tony thought, but Gibbs looked like he was about to say something else, so Tony said, "Looking forward to it, Probie."

 

McGee sighed. "Not your probie anymore, Tony."

 

"You can take the man out of the probie, but you can't take the probie out of the man," Tony shot back.

 

"The hell does that even mean, DiNozzo?" Gibbs asked.

 

"No idea," Tony replied, and Kate's words from so many years ago came back to him. "But the intent was sincere."

 

"Thanks, Tony. I think. Looking forward to the class," he added to MacLeod before turning to find a seat along the edge of the mat with the other agents who'd been trickling in.

 

"Interesting people you have here," MacLeod said to Tony.

 

"You should fit right in," Tony shot back, and MacLeod laughed.

 

**

 

Two hours later, the class had ended and only Jethro, DiNozzo, and MacLeod remained in the gym. Jethro had spoken to the night guard before coming in for MacLeod's class, letting him know that the gym was going to be in use after hours, so they shouldn't be disturbed.

 

"We'll have to find somewhere else to train with live blades," MacLeod said. "Or hope your cleaning crew is used to finding blood-soaked paper towels in the trash."

 

"You expect that much blood?" Jethro asked. Beside him, Tony shifted on his feet just a little, and Jethro couldn't fault him for his anxiety.

 

"It takes years to become competent with a blade," MacLeod said. "We have a week. I can show you the basics, some defensive maneuvers so you don't lose your head immediately. After that, it'll be up to you to practice."

 

"Well," Tony said, "at least we have someone to practice with."

 

"I'll need some _thing_ to practice with," Jethro observed, and MacLeod grinned.

 

"I brought a few," he said, and knelt to open the duffel.

 

Jethro took each blade from him as he unwrapped it, hefting them one after the other before placing them on the weight bench.

 

"Including," MacLeod said as he unwrapped the last sword. Jethro reached for it, but MacLeod offered to Tony. "Yours."

 

Tony grinned widely and took the weapon from MacLeod, pulling it from its scabbard in one smooth motion.

 

"It looks great," Tony said, and Jethro had to agree. The blade was straight and sharp-edged, though dulled with age. The grip was of some dark material - ebony wood, maybe - and the guard had a swirl design cut into the metal.

 

"I replaced the grip, polished the blade as best I could, and honed the edge," MacLeod said. "Otherwise, it was in excellent condition to begin with."

 

"Thank you." Tony moved away and swung and slashed with it.

 

"Don't let Ducky see that," Jethro called, and Tony laughed. To MacLeod's inquiring expression, Jethro added, "It's a long story."

 

"Another time, maybe," MacLeod said. He gestured toward the swords. "Experiment. If there's one you like, it's yours. If not, find the one you like best and tell me what's wrong with it, and I'll see if I can find something better."

 

Jethro picked up the sword closest to him. "For a guy I'm told wants to take my head, you're being awfully nice."

 

"Not all of us are obsessed with the Game," MacLeod said. "Some of us aren't even all that interested. But many of us are, and that means all of us have to be ready to play."

 

"Or completely detached from life," Tony put in. "Kind of an extreme Zen attitude."

 

"I've never met one of us with that attitude," MacLeod said.

 

"Have you met many of us?" Jethro asked as he thrust and sliced with the blade.

 

MacLeod considered for a moment. "A couple of hundred, I'd guess."

 

"And how many heads did you take?"

 

"More than I would have liked," MacLeod answered evenly, "and some that I still find satisfying."

 

Tony let out a low whistle. "I don't know if that sounds philosophical or psychotic."

 

MacLeod shrugged. "I don't seek out challenges, but I will fight if I'm challenged, and I will protect what's mine."

 

Jethro grunted - MacLeod's philosophy sounded reasonable. Now he just had to hope he wasn't challenged before he learned enough to stand a reasonable chance of winning.

 

He tried another two of the blades MacLeod had brought before returning to the first one. "This one."

 

MacLeod shook his head and pulled his wallet from his hip pocket.

 

"What?" Jethro asked.

 

"Tony bet me twenty dollars you'd pick something to do with the Marines - not any branch of the military in general, the Marines."

 

"He did?" Tony joined them, studied the sword in Jethro's hand. "What is it?"

 

"An 1859 regulation Marine NCO sword." MacLeod offered a few bills to Tony before meeting Jethro's gaze. "You were a Marine, I take it."

 

"Once a Marine, always a Marine," Jethro said. "How much do I owe you?"

 

"I paid five seventy for it."

 

"I'll have the money for you at tomorrow's class."

 

"Good enough," MacLeod said. "Ready for the basics?"


	8. Chapter 8

_Five months later_

 

Tony stared down at the lifeless - _headless_ \- body before him and let his sword fall from his hand to clatter on the pavement beside him.

 

I killed him. I _beheaded_ him. The shock of the event gave way to euphoria. I survived my first challenge!

 

Instinctively, he reached for his phone, pressed speed dial 1.

 

_"Yeah, Gibbs."_

 

"It's me. I just …" Tony gasped as electricity sparked along his spine. "I don't -"

 

Then he was caught in a maelstrom of wind and lightning, his body stiffening as a rush of energy he didn't recognize howled through him. His ears popped and electricity sizzled along his nerve endings.

 

The phone fell from suddenly nerveless fingers and all he could do was endure the lightning storm thundering through his body, burning his blood inside him.

 

_"Tony! Tony, are you all right? What's going on?"_

 

Tony had no breath to answer. Nor could he have explained what was going on if he had. Sensations, memories, swirled in his thoughts, but they weren't his - or at least, he didn't think they could be his.

 

Did they - _could_ they - come from the man he'd killed? Tony could barely think the question as the images flooded his awareness, and for a moment, he _was_ the man he'd killed, thinking his thoughts, feeling his feelings, remembering his memories.

 

He screamed, and barely registered Gibbs' voice coming through the phone.

 

_"DiNozzo! Ans-!"_

 

The sound cut off abruptly, and Tony couldn't even wonder what had happened. He could only endure this - whatever this was.

 

Finally - minutes, hours later, he didn't know - the lightning stopped, the memories that weren't his faded into the background of his awareness, and Tony collapsed to his knees, breathing hard through a throat raw from screaming.

 

Tony caught his breath and looked around. The parking lot where he'd fought his challenger still lay deserted under the lamps - no. The lamps had shattered, and the only light came from the three-quarter moon overhead and streetlights along the far edge of the parking lot.

 

He found his cell phone lying open beside him, grabbed it and brought it to his ear. "Gibbs?"

 

There was no answer, and he checked the phone, only to find its battery dead. He snapped it shut and slipped it into his pocket before surveying the scene again.

 

No, not just the scene - the crime scene. It was just a parking lot behind the bar where he'd encountered the other immortal, but it was a crime scene.

 

Tony swore under his breath and rose to his feet, shifting into analysis mode as if he were responding to a call from Dispatch. First things first - Tony pulled out his flashlight, then swore when it was as dead as his cell phone. He clipped it back to his belt and took a few breaths to calm himself.

 

_C'mon, DiNozzo - how would you handle this as a routine crime scene? Clean up everything you'd look for, one step at a time._

 

First things first - the body of the dead man. The body was clean of cuts and blood - Tony never touched his opponent, save for the blow that took his head off. The sword - that had Tony's blood on it from a couple of cuts he'd taken early in the bout, so it would have to go.

 

Blood spatters on the ground - if he'd been investigating the scene, Tony would've taken samples from every drop, if only because a man didn't decapitate himself with no apparent weapon lying around. Thanks to NCIS resources, he'd actually be able to have all those samples analyzed and determine that two people had in fact been involved. Would the local LEOs have the same resources? Probably not, but probably wasn't definitely, so Tony stripped off his shirt and knelt to wipe the ground around the body. Then he reviewed the fight in his mind, trying to remember where he'd been when he'd gotten cut.

 

A few yards to his right, he thought, so he stumbled the few steps to where he thought they'd been and knelt, wiping his shirt in broad strokes across the asphalt. It was rudimentary cleanup at best, but if he were lucky, it would be enough.

 

"DiNozzo!"

 

Gibbs' shout cut through the determined haze of Tony's thoughts, and he looked up, blinking, to see Gibbs approaching him, lowering and finally holstering his weapon as he got closer.

 

"What happened?"

 

"Challenge," Tony said, his voice as rough as the sandpaper Gibbs used on his boat. "I won."

 

"Yeah? So why were you screaming? And do you really think that'll work?"

 

"Doing the best I can with what I have," Tony replied. "I wasn't expecting a challenge - and yes, I know, you never expect a challenge - so I don't have what I'd need to really clean up."

 

"Gonna have to amend rule nine," Gibbs said. "Never go anywhere without a knife or a way to clean up the evidence."

 

Tony managed a weak laugh. "Clunky rule."

 

He sat back on his heels and surveyed the area he'd wiped - not that he could tell much difference between where he'd wiped and where he hadn't wiped in the darkness. Gibbs pulled out his own flashlight and swept its beam around the area.

 

"Looks good," he observed finally. "Won't know for sure until daylight, though."

 

"I don't plan on being anywhere near here at daylight," Tony said.

 

"Good plan." Gibbs watched as Tony rose to his feet and gathered the dead man's sword up with his shirt. "You gonna tell me the rest of it?"

 

"The plan? Get rid of shirt, shoes, and sword," Tony replied. "Then -"

 

"Not what I meant," Gibbs broke in. "Why you were screaming, what happened that you couldn't talk on the phone."

 

"I'd tell you if I knew, I swear. But I don't know, and I'm not calling MacLeod at this hour to ask him."

 

"I would, if I were you."

 

"Yeah, but your phone's not dead from whatever happened," Tony shot back.

 

"Dead?"

 

"Completely drained the battery, not to mention knocked out all the lights around here."

 

"Huh." Gibbs sounded calm, more so than Tony would have expected. But then again, this was Gibbs, the walking definition of unflappable. "So you get rid of shirt, shoes, and sword. Then meet me at your apartment."

 

**

 

Jethro paced Tony's living room, wondering for the dozenth, or maybe hundredth, time if he'd done the right thing in letting Tony dispose of the evidence alone. Tony had killed before, but in the line of duty, and with a gun that provided not just physical distance. He'd handled those well enough that Jethro wouldn't have worried if that had happened tonight.

 

Tonight, though - tonight Tony had killed a man with a sword, and Jethro had no idea how Tony would react. Outwardly, Tony seemed his normal self, but after ten years of working with him, Jethro knew that Tony only showed people what he wanted them to see.

 

Still, Tony had agreed to meet him here, and Jethro held on to that - that even if Tony were freaking on the inside, he'd show up here, and Jethro could help him through it, whatever it was.

 

It was over an hour before Jethro heard footsteps on the landing and the sound of Tony's key in the lock. When the door opened and Tony stepped inside, Jethro saw that he'd pulled on a T-shirt and a pair of sneakers, presumably from his go-bag, and had the go-bag in his hand and a duffel slung over his shoulder.

 

When Tony started toward his bedroom, Jethro turned into the kitchen. By the time he'd retrieved two beers and twisted the caps off, Tony was padding back on silent bare feet.

 

Jethro offered him one of the beers, not entirely surprised when Tony downed half of it in one long swallow. Then he was looking at Jethro with a wry expression.

 

"Good thing you're here. I would've gone for something harder."

 

"We might yet, before the night's done," Jethro told him. "How're you doing?"

 

"Better, I guess?" Tony led the way into his living room, flopped onto the couch. Jethro sat on the opposite end, angling his body so he faced his partner.

 

For long moments, they sat in silence before Tony shifted to look at Jethro. "You got your phone?"

 

"Rule three." Jethro pulled it from his pocket, and Tony grabbed it without asking.

 

"Mine's charging, and I decided I don't care how late - or early - it is. I want answers." He tapped in a number and laid the phone on the coffee table. Jethro nodded to himself when he saw that Tony had put it in speaker mode.

 

It was answered on the second ring.

 

 _"Gibbs?"_ MacLeod sounded surprisingly alert at - Jethro checked his watch - 3:12 a.m.

 

"Both of us," Tony said.

 

_"What's the occasion?"_

 

"I survived my first challenge." Tony's statement was laced with wonder and pride, Jethro thought, and just maybe a hint of shame.

 

 _"Really?"_ To his credit, MacLeod didn't sound disbelieving, only curious. _"Who?"_

 

"Said his name was Nobunaga Makoto."

 

A low whistle came through the speaker, and when MacLeod spoke again, he sounded impressed. _"He was older than I am, very experienced. Congratulations."_

 

"Thanks, I think." Tony shot Jethro a glance full of so many emotions Jethro couldn't begin to parse them all. "It's what happened after that I called about."

 

 _"After? Oh."_ MacLeod sounded … amused? Jethro glared at the phone as if it were the man himself. _"Did I forget to mention that?"_

 

"How about explaining what _that_ was?" Tony said. "Or is. Whatever."

 

 _"It's called a Quickening. When an immortal takes another immortal's head, he receives all the knowledge and power of the one he killed."_ There was a pause. _"That's why some immortals are addicted to the Game."_

 

"But not you," Jethro said, more a question than a statement.

 

_"No. There are lots more interesting things to do than chase after people's heads."_

 

"I suppose so."

 

Tony sat quietly for a long moment, and Jethro almost reached to end the call, but before his hand could do more than twitch, Tony shifted and sat forward to address the phone again.

 

"Must be a bitch, getting rid of all the forensic evidence every time."

 

 _"Forensic …?"_ MacLeod sounded puzzled, and after a heartbeat or two, he said, _"Oh. You mean blood?"_

 

"Yeah, well, blood comes with decapitations."

 

MacLeod's chuckle came through the phone. _"And the Quickening takes care of it."_

 

"What? How?" Jethro asked as he met Tony's wide-eyed expression.

 

_"Tony - tell him what it's like."_

 

Tony blew out a breath, and Jethro gave him his full attention. "It's like - like being caught in the center of an electrical storm. Wind, lightning, all of it. … Stings a bit."

 

 _"Hurts like hell, you mean,"_ MacLeod countered. _"And that's as good a description as any. But that lightning storm, that vaporizes blood that's not in the body. Always has."_

 

"How do you explain that?" Jethro asked when Tony stayed silent.

 

 _"Magic,"_ MacLeod answered, and Jethro glared at the phone. _"Or maybe some unknown laws of biophysics. I don't know. It just happens. Check the scene tomorrow morning - or this morning. You'll see."_

 

"Thanks for taking the call, Duncan," Tony said. "Sorry to call so late - early. Whatever."

 

_"Not a problem. I said call whenever, and I meant it. Night, Gibbs, Tony."_

 

Jethro ended the call and snapped his phone shut before sitting back to study his partner - his friend.

 

"You okay, Tony?"

 

"Not really," Tony answered, and Jethro was surprised at his honesty. Then, "I just dumped a pair of Italian leather shoes in the river for no reason."

 

Jethro reached out to smack the back of his head.

 

"Ow!"

 

"Not no reason, DiNozzo. Just because blood evidence is gone doesn't mean other evidence wouldn't stick around - like footprints."

 

"On asphalt?" Tony looked doubtful.

 

"A bit of leather chipped off after the Quickening," Jethro said. "The point is, you did the right thing."

 

"Did I?" Tony asked, and the plaintive note in his tone told Jethro he wasn't talking about the shoes anymore - if he ever had been. "I took a man's head off."

 

"He would've taken yours," Jethro reminded him, his tone firm but quieter than it would have normally been. "Even without the immortal challenge stuff, it was still self-defense."

 

"I know that," Tony said. "I do. Here." He tapped his temple, then his chest. "Not here. Not yet."

 

Jethro understood. All he said was, "How can I help?"

 

Tony downed the rest of his beer and blew out a breath. "I don't even know."

 

Jethro studied the other man. Tony had slouched so gradually that Jethro hadn't noticed before now that he was more off the couch than on it. For all that he looked physically relaxed, though, Jethro could sense tension radiating from him.

 

"All right," Jethro said finally. "First things first - get some sleep."

 

"Gotta be at work in a couple hours," Tony protested. "Might as well stay awake."

 

"I'll leave a message for Vance, tell him we're following a lead," Jethro said. "Get some sleep, and we'll deal with the rest of this tomorrow."

 

"Later today, you mean." Tony's lips quirked upward just a bit in a pale imitation of his usual smile. Jethro decided he'd take it.

 

"After we sleep and eat," Jethro amended, and was rewarded by a quiet chuckle. "Go take a hot shower and go to bed."

 

Tony levered himself to his feet, took two steps toward the bedroom before turning back. "What about you?"

 

"I'll sleep on the couch," Jethro said. "In case you have a nightmare."

 

He saw Tony's shoulders relax, however minutely, and bit back a smile. Tony nodded and said, "I'll get a blanket for you."

 

**

 

Jethro woke with the sunrise, as usual, realized he was in Tony's apartment, not his own bed, and told himself firmly to go back to sleep.

 

When he woke up again, Tony's living room was bright with sunlight. He stretched where he lay, then swung his legs over the edge of the couch and padded on bare feet toward Tony's bedroom.

 

Tony sprawled on his bed - a single, surprisingly enough - and Jethro pulled the door most of the way closed before heading toward the kitchen and the coffeemaker. Minutes later, he was inhaling the aroma of freshly-brewed coffee as he pulled two cups from the cabinet.

 

Tony appeared before he had taken his first sip.

 

"No nightmares," Jethro observed.

 

"No bad nightmares," Tony corrected as he poured a cup for himself.

 

"There's a difference?"

 

"Nightmares, you wake up, look around, remind yourself what's real, and go back to sleep." Tony took a sip of coffee. "Bad nightmares, you wake up sweating and terrified or screaming and stay awake the rest of the night."

 

"So you're okay?" Jethro asked.

 

"Okay enough," Tony replied, and took another sip of coffee to fill a silence that was oddly awkward. "Thanks for staying. It was good to have a fr- to have someone here."

 

Jethro gave him a steady look. "It's okay, Tony. You can say _friend._ "

 

Tony hesitated. "I wasn't sure we are."

 

"We are," Jethro confirmed. "I'm just lousy at saying so."

 

Tony laughed aloud at that. "Understatement, much?"

 

Jethro grinned around another sip of coffee. "I mean it. You, Abs, Ducky - you're the only friends I've had in … a while."

 

"Fornell?" Tony asked.

 

"Different kind of friend," Jethro said, then frowned as he searched for the explanation he knew Tony wanted but would never ask for. "Tobias and I have a lot in common, but I couldn't spend forever with him. Probably take his head within a century, just to shut him up."

 

"Vicious."

 

"Truthful. He hasn't been there for me the way you have." Jethro took another sip of coffee, then rose and crossed to rest a hand on Tony's shoulder, for once allowing himself to speak from the heart. "If it couldn't be Shannon, I'm glad it's you."

 

Tony swallowed, hard, and he nodded, once. "Glad it's you, too. You believed in me, made me want to be better than I was. Thank you."

 

"Welcome. We done?"

 

Tony laughed. "Yeah, we're done. Breakfast?"

 

Jethro grinned, just a little. "More like lunch."

 

"Nope, breakfast. First meal after you wake up is always breakfast, no matter what time of day it is," Tony told him. "It's a rule."

 

"A rule?"

 

"Yeah, a rule. Not as useful as rule nine, or as amusing as rule twenty-three, but a rule. How do you like your eggs?"

 

"However you're cooking 'em," Jethro replied, and settled down to watch the other man. Tony seemed much better this morning, but Jethro knew just how good Tony was at only showing what he wanted to be seen. Fortunately, Jethro was good at seeing what people didn't want to be seen.

 

To his experienced eye, Tony didn't just seem better, he actually was better. Whether he'd slept it off or whether he'd thought it through between nightmares, Tony was almost back to his usual self.

 

Jethro hoped he'd handle his first challenge as well as Tony was handling his. If he survived.

 


	9. Chapter 9

_Three weeks later_

 

The buzzing sensation at the base of his skull made Tony look up as the elevator dinged. A second later, Gibbs was striding off the elevator toward him.

 

"No response to the BOLO yet," he began, then paused when the expression on Gibbs' face registered. "Gibbs?"

 

"You were right, DiNozzo." Gibbs met his gaze briefly as he passed Tony's desk. "It does sting a bit."

 

Tony stared after Gibbs as the other man crossed to his desk and sat. Gibbs looked up at him, quirked an eyebrow, and Tony cleared his throat.

 

"I also called the girlfriend again," he said. "And I will tell you all those gory details when you tell me your gory details."

 

"Wasn't that gory," Gibbs retorted, and Tony had to laugh. Then Gibbs cut him off. "What've you got?"


	10. Chapter 10

_Two weeks later_

 

Jethro descended the stairs to his basement, surveying the nearly finished boat that rested there. The hull was completed, sanded as smooth as he could make it, ready and waiting for its first coat of stain.

 

He'd selected a cherry finish for it, darker than Shannon's hair had been, and both anticipated and dreaded seeing it on the hull. He removed the can from its place and pried the lid open to reveal the dark, pungent liquid inside.

 

Before he'd finished stirring it, his phone beeped with an incoming text. Only one person would send him a text, and Jethro found himself reaching for his phone before he consciously decided to.

 

The message was simple, but loaded with meaning. _Picked up a tail, Boss - not one of us._

 

Even as he smiled at the "Boss," technically true again now that they'd been forced back into a four-person team, Jethro typed a response.

 

_Where are you?_

 

_The Cellar._

 

Jethro knew the bar. It wasn't, strictly speaking, a Fed hangout, or even an LEO hangout, but a good proportion of its patrons were officers of some sort, and Tony sometimes went there to pick up gossip or just to maintain good relations with others in the law enforcement community.

 

_Be there in twenty._

 

He put the phone down and barely heard the beep of Tony's answering text as he hammered the lid back on the can of stain.

 

Twenty minutes later, he climbed out of his car and scouted the area around The Cellar. This part of town was generally well lit thanks to streetlights and a handful of bars, restaurants, and clubs that stayed open late.

 

Still, it didn't take long for Jethro to find a shadowed alley and take up a position there. He pulled out his phone and sent a text to Tony.

 

_I'm here._

 

Tony's response came quickly: _?? Don't sense you._

 

_Outside. Finish your drink, come out, and turn west._

 

_On it, Boss._

 

Gibbs closed his phone, slipped it into his pocket, and confirmed that both gun and sword were where they should be.

 

Tony emerged a few minutes later, and turned west as Jethro had instructed. Jethro felt a swell of pride when Tony didn't so much as look around as he got close enough for them both to feel the buzz, let alone when he passed the alley Jethro had chosen. Tony always had been good undercover.

 

Tony passed out of sight, and Jethro waited until the man following Tony was almost past the alley himself before lunging forward to grab the man by his shoulders, swing him into the alley and up against a wall.

 

The man cried out in surprise, and maybe a little pain, staring at Jethro.

 

"Why are you following a federal agent?" Jethro demanded.

 

"I'm not," the man said, his voice high with nerves. In the dim light of the alley, Jethro could only make out the basics - Caucasian, hair a shade or two lighter than Tony's, blue eyes. And young - college age, maybe.

 

"Sure seemed like it to me." Tony's voice came from the mouth of the alley, off to Jethro's left. "Answer the man's question - unless you want to be arrested."

 

"No!" the man said, his gaze flicking between Tony and Jethro. "Let me go, okay? And I'll tell you."

 

Jethro growled. "Tell me and I'll think about letting you go."

 

The man stared at him, wide-eyed, a long moment before turning his head toward Tony. "Okay, I was following you, but not because you're a federal agent."

 

From the corner of his eye, Jethro saw Tony's eyebrows fly up. "I'm flattered, but you're really not my type."

 

Even in the dim light, Jethro could see the young man flush. "No, that's not it, either. It's -"

 

"It's …?" Tony prompted.

 

"It's … something else." The young man looked between them again, his expression uncertain, and Jethro understood.

 

"It's this." He stepped back and opened his coat just enough to show the sword hanging by his side.

 

If it were possible, the young man's eyes widened even further. "You're immortal, too? Who are you?"

 

"We're asking the questions," Jethro reminded him as he settled his coat back into place.

 

"I'd answer, if I were you," Tony said. "Unanswered questions make him cranky."

 

The young man blew out a breath. "Okay, okay. I'm a Watcher."

 

"Well, yeah," Tony snorted. "You've been watching me for three days."

 

Jethro glared at him. "You let him get away with it that long?"

 

Tony shrugged. "I let him get away with it until I got bored."

 

"We've been watching you longer than that," the younger man said. "Can we go somewhere? It's cold."

 

Jethro studied him, then glanced at Tony, whose expression remained neutral.

 

The younger man sighed. "Look, my name's Kyle Whitworth, I'm a student at George Washington University, and I'm freezing. I'll buy, if you want - just let's please go somewhere warm."

 

Tony cocked his head to one side, flicking an inquiring glance at Jethro. Jethro grimaced, but gestured for Whitworth to follow Tony while he brought up the rear.

 

Minutes later, they were settled in a restaurant, cups of coffee on the way.

 

"You watch immortals," Jethro said. "Why?"

 

"Because mankind should know the truth. And they will - when there's only one of you left."

 

"That's not creepy at all," Tony murmured.

 

Whitworth shrugged. "As long as your kind have been around, we've been around, watching and recording. Every immortal has a Watcher."

 

Jethro couldn't help smirking. "Every one?"

 

"Every one we know about," Whitworth said. He looked up to meet Tony's gaze. "We found out about you when Nobunaga challenged you. His Watcher reported in, and I was assigned to you then."

 

"Losing your skills, DiNozzo?" Jethro asked.

 

Tony shot him a brief glare before turning back to Whitworth. "So what changed three days ago, that you got close enough for me to spot you?"

 

"I'm not supposed to tell you -"

 

"You weren't supposed to get caught, either," Jethro reminded him.

 

After a moment, Whitworth sighed. "There's another immortal in town. I'm watching you in case you're challenged. There's another Watcher watching the other immortal, too."

 

Tony grinned briefly. "Nice. Didn't give anything away by pronouns, didn't imply a challenge is coming. What's your major?"

 

"Public health." Whitworth turned to Gibbs. "Still haven't said who you are."

 

Jethro considered not answering, but if Whitworth were watching Tony, he'd find out soon enough. No sense making an enemy of a neutral party.

 

"Leroy Jethro Gibbs. Immortal since 1991."

 

Whitworth's jaw dropped. Jethro had never seen that reaction in person before, and he was surprised it actually happened. "1991? And none of us knew?"

 

Jethro just shrugged and sipped his coffee.

 

"Gonna have to report this, get a Watcher assigned to ..." Whitworth trailed off in the face of Jethro's glare.

 

"You do what you have to do," he told Whitworth. "But it's probably safest for your Watcher to introduce themselves to me, rather than let me catch them the way DiNozzo caught you."

 

Whitworth swallowed. "Uh - why?"

 

Tony grinned. "Gibbs is a Marine. Marines don't take kindly to being stalked."

 

"Putting it mildly, Tony."

 

"Don't want to scare him," Tony shot back before looking at Whitworth again. "Might warn your replacement to introduce themselves to me, too."

 

"Replacement?" Whitworth frowned. "I don't know what you mean."

 

"You're a student," Tony explained. "You'll graduate eventually, and if you have to move for a job, you'll have a replacement."

 

"Oh, right." Whitworth visibly relaxed, and Jethro wondered idly if he'd thought Tony, or maybe Jethro himself, would kill him.

 

"So," Whitworth said. "What now?"

 

"I'm gonna finish my coffee," Jethro said. "Tony?"

 

"Same." Tony grinned suddenly. "And then head home because I have to work in the morning and my boss is a stickler for punctuality - by which he means fifteen minutes before the day officially begins."

 

Whitworth looked between the two of them for a long moment before saying, "I'll say goodnight."

 

Then he was gone, and Jethro blew out a long, slow breath.

 

"What?" Tony asked.

 

"It was simpler, before," Jethro admitted. "When it was just me, even if I didn't know what was going on or why. And then you - it was still easy. Then there was de Lara, and MacLeod, and now Watchers."

 

"Not so simple anymore."

 

"Furthest thing from."

 

Tony chuckled briefly. "You gonna handle it?"

 

"Don't have a choice."

 

"You do - let someone take your head."

 

Jethro looked at him over the rim of his coffee cup. "Someone - as in you?"

 

"As in whoever you chose," Tony replied evenly. "Things wouldn't be complicated then."

 

Jethro could only stare at him, the coffee cup frozen on its way back down to the table. How could Tony even suggest such a thing?

 

Oh.

 

Because he'd done it before.

 

Jethro set his cup down and leaned forward, crossing his forearms on the table as he met and held Tony's gaze. "I'm not in that place, Tony. I don't think I'll ever get to that place again."

 

"You don't think you will." Tony sounded skeptical.

 

Jethro glanced away, needing the momentary respite to find the right words. When he did, he met Tony's gaze again. "Never is a long time. I can't think of any circumstances that would bring me there again, but that doesn't mean there aren't any."

 

Tony appeared to consider those words, then nodded, once. "Fair enough. But if you get to that place, even get close to that place, will you call me?"

 

"You want my head that badly?" Jethro asked mildly, and got a glare in return.

 

"Thought you were smarter than that, Gibbs. What I mean is, you were alone back then. You don't have to be alone if it happens again."

 

Jethro swallowed past a lump in his throat, managed, "Thanks, Tony."

 

"I've got your six, Boss." Tony shook his head. "Partner, whatever the paperwork says. Jethro."

 

"Got yours, too, Tony." Jethro raised his coffee cup, and Tony touched his cup to his. Jethro drained the last of his coffee and reached for his wallet.

 

Tony held up a hand to stop him. "I got it. You're only here because of me."

 

"Technically, because of Whitworth," Jethro said. "But thanks."

 

"You can thank me by putting in a good word with my boss if I happen to be a bit late coming in tomorrow."

 

Jethro suppressed the urge to roll his eyes. "Any particular reason you'll be late?"

 

"Rule thirty-five. Gonna watch the Watcher, make sure he checks out."

 

Jethro didn't bother trying to suppress his smile. "Good thought."


	11. Chapter 11

_Seventeen years later_

 

Tony would never admit it aloud, but he was disappointed that Abby wasn't having a jazz funeral. A little research had told him why, but he thought it would be more fitting for her than what she'd actually chosen for her funeral - a graveside service at night, preferably under a full moon.

 

She'd managed the full moon, even if it was hidden behind clouds that poured rain onto New Orleans and pattered hard against his umbrella. At least it was mid-May, so he probably wouldn't have to worry about a hurricane while he was here.

 

He stood a little apart from the husband and children Abby had left behind, listening to the words the priest spoke just enough so that he could join in the proper responses from the congregation.

 

The buzzing at the base of his skull was unusual these days, but he recognized it immediately nonetheless.

 

"Boss," he said quietly.

 

"Haven't been your boss for a while, Director." Gibbs' response was equally quiet.

 

Tony looked up as Gibbs joined him. Of course the other man hadn't aged, but he looked more tired tonight than he usually did. Then again, Abby had always been Gibbs' favorite. Her death - _too young!_ his mind howled, _Much too young!_ \- from breast cancer would affect Gibbs more than any of the others had.

 

So many others - Ducky, Balboa, McGee, Vance, Bishop, Dorneget, Palmer. Tony would have to ask MacLeod how he handled losing so many friends, sometime. But not tonight.

 

Tonight, they stood in silence while the service ended, offered quiet sympathies to Abby's family, and found themselves falling in step as they walked away from the gravesite and the memories it held.

 

"Only Abby could arrange her funeral for a dark and stormy night," Tony observed.

 

"That's our Abs," Gibbs replied, and if he still looked somewhat haggard, at least there was amusement in his voice.

 

Still, they were comfortably silent as they followed the path to the main parking area. Gibbs' hand on Tony's arm made him pause when they were still a dozen yards away.

 

"Holy ground, still," Gibbs said. "Rather not be interrupted right now."

 

"I get it," Tony said softly. "She was the last of us - the MCRT. Maybe even the best of us."

 

"Not just that," Gibbs said, and Tony quirked an eyebrow at him. "Figure it's time to talk about what we do next."

 

"We," Tony repeated carefully.

 

Tony felt more than saw Gibbs' glare, thanks to the shadows his own umbrella cast on his face. "Yeah, we."

 

"Why we?"

 

"Because we together are stronger than either of us alone - if only because we face fewer challenges."

 

Tony had to admit that was a, "Fair point. What are you thinking?"

 

"You're 62 - coming up on mandatory retirement age."

 

Tony couldn't help snorting. "It's 65 now, Jethro. Got a couple of years left in me."

 

"About the right time to start planning," Gibbs shot back.

 

Tony knew that tone of voice well and gave in. "What are you thinking?"

 

"Not much of anything right now. Just that it's time to start planning."

 

There was more, Tony knew - with Leroy Jethro Gibbs there was always more. The only question was, how much of that _more_ would he choose to share with others, and when?

 

Tony blew out a breath. He couldn't make Gibbs share anything the man didn't want to share, but he could share what he'd been doing.

 

"I've been studying," he said.

 

"Studying what?"

 

"Hacking. How to do what Abby and McGee did," Tony added by way of clarification. "We're in law enforcement, we'll need solid IDs and no previous DNA records on file."

 

Tony could _feel_ Gibbs' eyebrows rising. "You think we're staying in law enforcement?"

 

"Maybe not staying," he admitted, "but it's what we do. We'll be back to it, sooner or later."

 

"Probably." From Gibbs, that was a huge admission. "Not right away, though. Got something I need your input on."

 

"What's that?"

 

"This." Gibbs opened his trenchcoat with the hand that wasn't holding his umbrella and withdrew a sword still in its scabbard.

 

Tony took it with his free hand, surprised when Gibbs took his umbrella so he'd have both hands free to examine the blade.

 

"Probably should have better lighting for this," Tony commented as he drew the sword.

 

It felt good in his hand, solid and dependable like the man beside him. He gave it an experimental slash or two, then carefully wiped the rain from it on his sleeve before returning it to its scabbard.

 

"Very nice." He exchanged it for his umbrella, raising an eyebrow at Gibbs' expression.

 

"I made it." Even in the dim light, Tony thought he saw a hint of a blush on Gibbs' cheeks, and it was only that hint that kept him reasonably serious when he spoke.

 

"Thought you did woodworking, not metalworking."

 

"I've been retired almost ten years," Gibbs said. "Spent a good chunk of them learning bladesmithing."

 

"Any particular reason?"

 

"Same reason I wanted an antique blade. I want one I can depend on."

 

Tony chuckled. "So you had to learn to do it yourself. But what can you possibly need my input on?"

 

"Your sword, of course."

 

"Mine?" Tony repeated, staring dumbly at his friend. "You're making me a sword?"

 

"If you want it," Gibbs said. "If you're happy with the cavalry sword you got from MacLeod, I wouldn't force you to get a new one."

 

Tony studied the other man. Spending so much time together since he'd become immortal had taught him how to read Gibbs. Now he thought that Gibbs was offering up himself, in some strange fashion, and if Tony were any judge, he was expecting to be rejected.

 

Tony would have to disappoint him. "I'm … honored, Jethro. I have no idea how I can help, but it would be my honor to carry a sword you made."

 

Gibbs smiled in a way Tony hadn't seen since they'd been in Stillwater and Gibbs drove his car for the first time. The smile gave him the courage to say what had been on his mind since Gibbs - Jethro - brought up planning for the future.

 

"That mean you want to … I don't know, travel together for a while?"

 

"We make a good team."

 

"Yeah," Tony agreed with a smile, feeling lighter than he had in a long time. "We do."

 


	12. Chapter 12

_Many years later_

 

"DiNozzo!"

 

"Yes, sir?" Tony looked up at the bark - not Gibbs, not this time, but still habit had him responding without thinking, despite how many years it had been since he'd last officially used his own name.

 

He watched as Captain Hiram McKay of the Baltimore branch of the Eastern Seaboard Police Department bulled his way through the bullpen. He was as tall as Tony and almost as wide - which explained why Tony didn't notice the young woman in the too-pressed uniform trailing in his wake until they'd stopped at Tony's desk.

 

"Your new partner," McKay said. "Break her in, show her the ropes. If she passes the probationary period, you'll be assigned permanently. "

 

Tony studied the young woman more closely. "First thing we have to do is get you out of that uniform."

 

"Sir?!" Her eyes flew from him to McKay, and Tony suppressed a smile at her deer-in-the-headlights expression.

 

"DiNozzo -" McKay began.

 

"That both of your minds went straight into the gutter says more about you than it does about me," Tony retorted. Then he focused on his new partner. "I meant, get out of uniform and into plain clothes. Homicide detectives don't wear uniforms."

 

"I'm not a detective, yet," she objected.

 

"You will be when I'm done with you," Tony told her. "Assuming you don't wash out."

 

She glared at him. "I won't."

 

"I'll hold you to that, Officer," McKay said. Then he turned away, tossing a, "DiNozzo," over his shoulder as he did so.

 

"Captain," Tony acknowledged, then focused on the woman standing somewhat nervously across from him. That she was jumping directly from street cop to homicide suggested she was smart - or, he admitted with a private scowl, very well connected. If the first, he'd push her like Gibbs had pushed him so many years ago. If the second, he'd push just as hard and wash her out without regret or fear of the consequences.

 

He smiled. It was nice not to have to worry about consequences.

 

"Detective?" The officer's question pulled him back to the present.

 

"Tony," he corrected. "And you are?"

 

"Josephine Benoit," she said. "But everybody calls me Jo."

 

The centuries had only perfected Tony's ability to keep a neutral expression, no matter what he might be thinking. Could this woman be a descendant of Jeanne, somehow? Or maybe it was just Fate playing with him. Again.

 

Either way, he managed a smile and said, "Good to meet you, Jo."

Her return smile was tentative, and he shook off the last of his surprise to say, "No active case at the moment, so let's get you started going over a couple of my cold ones."

 

Her mouth quirked into a puzzled frown. "You have cold cases?"

 

"Everybody has cold cases," Tony told her.

 

"Is that a rule?"

 

"No. There are rules, though, and I'll teach them to you."

 

"What are they?"

 

Tony grinned again. "You'll find out. Let's start with rule twenty-eight. When you need help, ask."

 

Jo blinked. "Odd rule."

 

"Necessary, especially now. I haven't seen your personnel file, and we've only known each other five minutes. I don't know your strengths, your weaknesses. So ask when you need help."

 

"Okay." She thought about that for a moment. "If that's rule twenty-eight, what's rule one?"

 

"Never screw over your partner."

 

**

 

Several hours later, Tony glanced at the time and realized he and Jo had worked straight through the lunch hour. He looked up to find her watching him with a very interested expression. He decided to nip whatever infatuation she might be developing in the bud.

 

"Rule twelve," he said. "Never date a co-worker."

 

She flushed. "Hadn't even crossed my mind."

 

Tony decided not to be offended by her immediate rejection. Instead, he pushed back from his desk. "C'mon, Newbie. Lunch is on me."

 

Tony led her to a diner he'd discovered during his first tenure with the Baltimore PD. He'd been pleasantly surprised to find it was still open and more surprised to find out it was still in the same family.

 

Once they'd been seated and ordered, Tony studied Jo as she'd studied him. "So. If it wasn't rule twelve, why were you staring at me earlier?"

 

She flushed again, but leaned forward and lowered her voice. "I'm your new Watcher."

 

Dread swept through Tony. "Is Abdul okay?"

 

"He's fine," Jo reassured him. "He just wanted to be with his parents. They're past 100, you know."

 

"I know. I was there for both of their centenary birthday celebrations."

 

Jo blinked once, twice. "You were?"

 

"Why wouldn't I be?"

 

"Because - he was your Watcher."

 

It was Tony's turn to blink. "And your point is?"

 

"It's - unusual for … an immortal to be that close to his Watcher."

 

Tony grinned. "I'm an unusual immortal."

 

"So I've heard."

 

Tony waited while the server brought their meals, but Jo didn't say anything else. Finally, after a couple of bites of his club sandwich, he said, "Becoming a cop just to watch me is a little extreme."

 

"I didn't," Jo said immediately. "I became a cop because I wanted to be one. But when Abdul announced his retirement, I volunteered to be your Watcher, too."

 

"Because?" Tony prompted.

 

"Because you tend to slip away from male Watchers more than you do female Watchers. And if I'm your partner, it'll be harder for you to justify abandoning me."

 

Tony nodded an acknowledgment and for a while they ate in silence. Finally, Jo said, "Have you heard? MacLeod's leaving Earth. He volunteered for the first colony ship to Mars."

 

"Uh-huh," Tony replied. "We're having a gathering Friday."

 

"The Gathering is Friday?" Jo's voice squeaked on the last word.

 

"Yeah," Tony said, smiling a little in anticipation. "Jethro's barbecuing - it's scary how good he is with anything involving fire - I'm bringing Nana's Italian wedding cake, and Duncan has a bottle of single malt he's been saving for the last couple of centuries."

 

"But -" Jo cut herself off, took a breath, and started again. "What about the pull?"

 

"Pull?" Tony frowned.

 

"The irresistible pull that draws the last few immortals together to fight for the prize."

 

Why would Jo be talking about that now? Tony reviewed the conversation, chuckling to himself when he realized it was his fault - his choice of words had led her down a stray path. Then her words caught his attention. "Last few? How many are left?"

 

"Just the three of you."

 

Tony stared at her. "Really? Jethro, Duncan, me?"

 

"As far as we can tell, yes."

 

Something deep inside Tony's gut unclenched. "That's a relief."

 

"A _relief_?"

 

"I don't have to worry about my head anymore. Neither Jethro nor Duncan is interested in taking it. Slapping it, maybe," Tony added with a smile, remembering the head-slaps that had been part of his life since he'd joined NCIS centuries before.

 

"But - the prize," Jo said. "What about the prize?"

 

"What about it?" Tony countered, and when Jo just stared at him, apparently dumbfounded, he said, "What actually _is_ the prize, Jo?"

 

"The knowledge and power of all the immortals who ever lived."

 

Tony met her gaze openly. "And what am I supposed to do with that?"

 

"Well -" Jo broke off again, rallied herself. "But - the Gathering. It's been centuries - millennia, even - you've been fighting for it, preparing for it all this time…."

 

"We're not salmon," Tony told her gently. He might have had centuries to think about the mythology associated with immortals, to discuss it with Jethro and Duncan, and even an occasional Watcher or two, but she was still deeply immersed in it.

 

"Look," he said. "Why don't you join us Friday? Bring Jethro and Duncan's Watchers, too. If I'm wrong, if we are somehow compelled to fight each other, you'll have a front-row seat to it."

 

"And if you're right?" Jo's voice barely carried over the space between them.

 

"Then you get a free meal. Win-win."

 

Jo considered that while Tony paid for their meal. Finally she said, "Okay. But if you're right … that means we've wasted all these years, centuries, watching you."

 

"Watching is less wasteful than killing people," Tony countered. "Some of whom needed killing, but a lot of them didn't. C'mon, we should get back."

 

Jo rose from her chair. "It's a lot to take in."

 

"Take it easy this afternoon, if you need to," Tony told her. "We're working cold cases - it's not urgent."

 

He gestured her to precede him, and made a mental note to remind Jethro to get more steaks for Friday.

 

This was one gathering he could look forward to.


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A couple of commenters wanted to know what happened at MacLeod's farewell barbecue. Truthfully, I hadn't intended to write it - but those requests triggered a couple of thoughts, and those thoughts ultimately became two shiny new chapters. Hope you enjoy!

_That Friday night_

 

Many things had changed in the centuries since Jethro died his first death - his name and occupation too many times to count; technology in a continual stream of updates - but his house remained the same.

 

Not entirely the same, thanks to his own nature that needed to be busy, to work with his hands - and whenever he was between identities, Jethro retreated here to the house he'd shared first with Shannon and Kelly, then with a succession of ex-wives, then Tony and later MacLeod, and reacquainted himself with the simple pleasures of working with his hands. Over the years, he'd replaced the flooring, updated the appliances, added insulation, built on a couple of additions, and done a dozen other technological upgrades that weren't visible on the surface.

 

The most recent change was that he'd built an outdoor kitchen, complete with sink, refrigerator, and gas grill, in the backyard. Part of him yearned for a charcoal grill, but current ordinances wouldn't allow that. Still, tonight he'd use it for the first time for Duncan MacLeod's going-away party.

 

The irony wasn't lost on him as he brought a platter loaded steaks, ribs, and assorted sides out to the counter beside the grill.

 

First on the grill was a cast iron skillet. When it had heated, Jethro added butter and then set some sliced onions to begin caramelizing. A packet of vegetables, seasoned and wrapped in foil, went on next.

 

Then all he had to do was wait for his guests - the steaks would go on the grill when the last one arrived - and set out plates and silverware.

 

"Hey, Jethro."

 

"Tony." Jethro waited until Tony set his contribution to the meal on the table before enveloping the other man in a quick hug. He hadn't seen his friend much recently, not since he'd retired from the DC branch of the Eastern Seaboard Police Department and Tony had made detective at the Baltimore branch, and tonight was about affirming friendship.

 

Tony stepped back and gestured to the young woman who'd followed him. "My new Watcher and new partner. Jo Benoit."

 

"Benoit?" Jethro repeated involuntarily as he automatically offered his hand. There were a few names that stuck out in his memory, and Benoit was one of them.

 

The young woman glanced between him and Tony. "Something wrong with my name?"

 

"Old memories," Jethro said.

 

"Oh." Finally, she took his hand, and Jethro appreciated the strength of her grip. "Tell me, someday?"

 

"Someday," Tony said before looking around Jethro's backyard. "Need help?"

 

"Just waiting for the others," Jethro said.

 

"MacLeod's right behind us." The new voice had Jethro turning to greet his Watcher.

 

"Tanaka." Jethro shook his hand, assessing the changes since he'd last seen Shiro Tanaka … had it really been almost ten years? Tanaka was older now, his hair streaked with silver almost like Jethro's own, but still straight and strong.

 

"You have not met Angus Kinnear," Tanaka said. "Angus, Jethro Gibbs."

 

Jethro shook Kinnear's hand in turn. "You watch MacLeod."

 

"I do." Kinnear had a firm grip - not that Jethro was surprised. The Watchers he'd met tended to be made of sturdy stuff. Not Marine-sturdy, but sturdy enough.

 

"Gonna be hard to do, with him on Mars." Tony stepped forward. "Tony DiNozzo."

 

Kinnear grinned. "Not so hard if I'm on Mars, too."

 

Jethro raised an eyebrow as Tony let out a low whistle and glanced at Jo Benoit. "And I thought becoming a cop to watch me was dedication. You got nothing on him."

 

"You're going to Mars, too?" Jethro asked, just to be certain.

 

"Scots were a large portion of the early immigrants to the U.S. and Australia," Kinnear said. "Seems fitting that we should be part of the early emigration to Mars, too."

 

"But that was the result of the Clearances," Tony said, and Jethro stared at him, wondering not only how Tony knew that but what the Clearances actually were. "The immigration to the U.S. and Australia, I mean. Mars isn't anything like that."

 

"No," Kinnear agreed. "But it's not just that. It's also my duty as MacLeod's Watcher to watch him, whatever happens."

 

"Besides -" this voice Jethro recognized, and he turned to greet Duncan MacLeod as the third and final immortal strode from the front yard, a bottle in one hand and a box of glasses in the other "- for all we know, there might be more immortals born on Mars. If there are -"

 

"I'll be there to watch," Kinnear finished.

 

"And call for more of us from Earth," Jo pointed out.

 

Jethro shook his head. "Lotta trouble for no reward, you ask me."

 

A sound somewhere between a snort and a laugh made Jethro look at Tony, the question on his lips dying at the sight of his friend's expression. "What?"

 

"Boats?" Tony said.

 

Jethro shrugged. "The reward was the job well done."

 

"And exploration is its own reward, too," MacLeod said. He'd opened the box, pulled out six glasses and lined them up on the table while they were talking.

 

He poured generous drams into three of the glasses, then paused with the bottle over a fourth to regard each Watcher in turn. "Will you even appreciate this if I pour it for you?"

 

"What is it?" Tony asked.

 

"Whisky," MacLeod answered with a grin. Jethro was sure he matched Tony's scowl. MacLeod chuckled and continued, "What you Yanks call Scotch. Distilled and matured in the shadow of Dunvegan Castle."

 

"How old is it?" Jethro asked.

 

"Older than you," MacLeod shot back, obviously teasing, before looking around at the Watchers once more. "Any takers?"

 

Kinnear looked affronted. "I may be a Lowlander, but I can appreciate a _good_ whisky."

 

Tanaka shrugged. "I usually drink sake."

 

Jo grinned. "I'm partial to Glengoyne 18."

 

MacLeod snorted. "That's half a Highland whisky."

 

Jethro knew he was going to regret asking, "How can something be half a Highland whisky?"

 

"Glengoyne's distilled in the Highlands," MacLeod explained, "but matured in the Lowlands."

 

"The distillery property straddles the road that divides the two," Jo added. "The whisky itself has been a favorite of the royal family for generations."

 

MacLeod finished pouring and passed around the glasses, telling Tanaka, "Go easy on it - whisky's at least double the alcohol by volume of sake."

 

Tanaka nodded, and lifted the glass to sniff the aroma. Jethro followed suit, inhaling deeply. Unlike the vanilla and caramel he associated with bourbon, this whisky had a clean, spicy scent, and Jethro allowed himself to hope it hadn't gone bad in the bottle.

 

Before he verified that, he paused with his glass raised. To his right, Tony followed suit. The Watchers exchanged puzzled glances, but seemed content to follow their lead.

 

MacLeod swallowed and raised his own glass. "Connor MacLeod. Joe Dawson. Amanda Darieux."

 

Jethro and Tony repeated the names, before all three sipped. Jethro savored the burn of the whisky down his throat and concluded that it wasn't the bourbon he loved, but it was a damned good substitute.

 

When the burn faded, Jethro spoke. "Shannon and Kelly Gibbs."

 

Tony and MacLeod repeated the names, and again they drank. Jethro wasn't certain whether to be glad or not that even after several centuries, the memories of his wife and daughter hadn't faded. But then, wasn't that the point of this ritual? Keeping the good memories alive?

 

And they were good, Jethro admitted privately. Shannon's and Kelly's deaths would hurt forever - literally - but finally their deaths weren't the first thing he thought of when he thought of his girls.

 

He glanced up as Tony's hand came to rest on his shoulder. He nodded, once, and Tony squeezed his shoulder before dropping his hand and raising his glass once more.

 

"Abby Sciuto. Jimmy Palmer. Ducky Mallard."

 

"Abby Sciuto. Jimmy Palmer. Ducky Mallard." Jethro echoed the names with MacLeod, took a third sip.

 

Then Tony smirked. "Don't burn the steaks, Gibbs."

 

"Hard to burn 'em when they're not on the grill yet," Jethro shot back, and the somber mood lifted.

 

It was a delicate balance, remembering without getting maudlin, and he was glad that tonight Tony's quip had helped maintain it. This was a celebration, after all, as much as it was a farewell, and he'd do his part by getting the steaks going.

 

**

 

Two hours later, MacLeod's whisky had been set aside in favor of bottles of mellow red wine, and Jethro laughed at Tony's story of a man who'd tried to rob a bank while wearing a cow costume.

 

"Cow?" MacLeod repeated dubiously.

 

"Well, it would cover him up," Jo Benoit allowed. "Make it harder to ID him once he ditched the costume."

 

"But it also makes it harder for him to get away," Kinnear said. "Except maybe during Mardi Gras in New Orleans, even in the biggest cities, a guy running down the street in a cow costume is going to stand out."

 

"You are assuming some intelligence," Tanaka pointed out. "Criminals are stupid."

 

"Not all of them," Jethro said. "Some are pretty smart."

 

Tanaka raised an eyebrow at him. "Then why do they get caught?"

 

"Arrogance." Tony chorused with him, and Jethro took a sip of his wine.

 

Tony took the hint and elaborated. "It's not that they're stupid, it's that they assume they're smarter than everyone else, especially us dumb cops, so they make mistakes."

 

"But making that assumption is stupid," Tanaka said.

 

"He's got you there, Tony." MacLeod grinned. "He's just getting at the root cause."

 

Jethro glanced at Tony, saw the amusement and frustration warring in his friend's expression, then turned to his Watcher. "Tell you what, Tanaka - you spend a couple of centuries in law enforcement, then we'll talk about the difference between arrogance and stupidity."

 

Tanaka shrugged, as though to dismiss the discussion, and the silence that followed somehow seemed less comfortable than it had before. Not that Jethro cared - creating uncomfortable silences was something he did almost reflexively.

 

Jo Benoit wasn't as comfortable with uncomfortable silences, it seemed - she shifted to face MacLeod more fully. "So, Duncan - anything you want to do before you leave? Something you won't be able to do on Mars?"

 

MacLeod grinned. "There is something…"

 

He looked first at Jethro, then Tony. After a moment, Tony groaned.

 

"You want to kick our asses in a swordfight. Again."

 

MacLeod's smile widened and a light appeared in his eyes that Jethro might have called manic if he didn't know the other man. "Uh-huh."

 

Jethro gave an exaggerated sigh and got to his feet. "My blade's inside."

 

"Mine's in the car." Tony shot a glare at MacLeod. "Didn't think I'd need it anymore."

 

"But you still have it," Kinnear pointed out.

 

"Rule nine," Jethro said, pleased when Tony added, "As amended."

 

"Another one of your rules?" Jo asked.

 

"Not mine." Tony jerked his head toward Jethro. "His."

 

Jo appeared to brace herself. "So what's rule nine?"

 

"Always carry a knife," Jethro said.

 

"As amended - always carry a knife long enough to take someone's head," Tony added.

 

"You two going to talk all night?" MacLeod demanded. "Or do we fight?"

 

"And people called you impatient, Boss," Tony joked. "Be right back."

 

Minutes later, Jethro stood facing Tony and MacLeod. Each of them held a sword loosely.

 

"Two on one is against the rules," Tanaka said.

 

"Not a challenge," Jethro said. "Just fun. Up to you, MacLeod. One on one, or three for all?"

 

MacLeod considered. "One on one. You first."

 

"First blood?" Jethro asked. At MacLeod's nod, he set aside his sword to strip off his shirt. "Harder to hide a hit."

 

MacLeod followed suit. "And fewer questions to answer if anyone sees me after I leave."

 

"You really think he'll get a hit?" Kinnear asked.

 

"I'm not discounting the possibility. At the very least, I expect a workout."

 

"Hey, Jethro," Tony called. "You got popcorn in the house?"

 

Jethro didn't bother to answer, instead taking up his sword once again and crossing to the middle of his backyard to face MacLeod. He offered the other man a fencer's salute, despite the fact that he held a blade of his own making and MacLeod held a katana. MacLeod returned the salute, and then they were engaged, the clang of steel against steel ringing through the night.

 

It was the best sparring session Jethro had had in a while. Yes, he and Tony sparred often, and Tony was good, no question, but MacLeod had centuries of experience on both of them, and it was all Jethro could do to defend against MacLeod's attacks.

 

And then his sword went flying from his hand, MacLeod's blade coming to rest on his shoulder just inches from his neck.

 

"Well done. More of a fight than I'd expected." MacLeod grinned.

 

"Been practicing."

 

MacLeod took a step back, letting the sword fall away from Jethro's shoulder. Tanaka's voice cracked the night.

 

"Take his head."

 

Jethro whirled to face Tanaka, who stood scowling at him and MacLeod.

 

"No need," MacLeod said, apparently oblivious to Tanaka's expression.

 

"There is a need," Tanaka said. "There can be only one. Take his head!"

 

Jethro kept his gaze primarily on Tanaka, but even so he caught MacLeod's backward step away from him out of the corner of his eye.

 

"No," MacLeod said.

 

"Take his head," Tanaka repeated, and then somehow he had a gun in his hand, aiming it directly at Jo Benoit. "Or I will kill her."

 


	14. Chapter 14

Jethro stood frozen after Tanaka's threat, assessing the farewell dinner that had suddenly become a hostage situation. He had a pocket gun - better backup than an ankle holster, though he wore one of those as well - and he would bet Tony did, too. MacLeod - very likely he had only the sword in his hand, and Kinnear probably wasn't armed at all. Jo might or might not have a backup weapon, but even if she did, there wasn't much she could do with Tanaka's gun just inches from her head.

 

Jo stared between Tanaka, Jethro, and MacLeod. Even from this distance, Jethro could read the fear in her eyes and couldn't blame her for it. She might be a cop, but she was still young.

 

Tony's low murmur broke the silence. "Oh, Shiro. You really shouldn't have done that."

 

"If you will not, someone must," Tanaka said, and then backhanded Kinnear, who'd started to rise from his seat, with his free hand. He hadn't even looked, Jethro noted, and filed away the fact that his Watcher had a fighter's situational awareness.

 

"Take his head, MacLeod," Tanaka repeated. "You know you must - there can be only one."

 

"Says who?" Jethro demanded. "Nobody's ever shown me where the rules are written down."

 

"Like yours are?" Tanaka snapped back.

 

"They are, actually," Tony said, and Jethro recognized that tone. It was the same one Tony had used to talk down multiple criminals over the centuries - pitched to convey calm confidence. "A bunch of notes in a box in the basement."

 

"The rules are older than the oldest immortal," Tanaka said.

 

"So - Duncan," Tony said, and from his vantage point, Jethro could see Tony's hand moving oh-so-slowly, a millimeter at a time, toward his pants pocket.

 

"You ever seen the rules, Duncan?" Tony asked. "I mean, it's kinda silly to adhere to rules no one's ever seen."

 

 _Atta boy, Tony._ While Tony kept Tanaka distracted, Jethro echoed Tony's movement, creeping his hand toward the pocket-gun he'd started carrying during the Troubles last century. He knew Tony had a similar gun.

 

"Stop talking - you merely cheapen these sacred proceedings," Tanaka said, and turned back to MacLeod. "You! Take his head!"

 

"The hell, Tanaka?" Jethro put outrage into his tone. "You're my Watcher. You should want me to take his head."

 

"He won," Tanaka declared. "Take his head, MacLeod - it is your due as victor, and you lose your honor if you do not."

 

"Really? You're playing the honor card?" MacLeod may not have the training that he or Tony did, Jethro thought, but the man had centuries of life experience, and now had apparently picked up on what he and Tony were up to, and was doing what he could to help.

 

MacLeod turned to Jethro. "Do you know how many people have tried to play that card over the centuries?"

 

"Quite a lot, I'd imagine." Now that Tanaka's attention was on him again, Jethro paused the movement of his hand toward his trouser pocket.

 

"I stopped counting four hundred years ago - at a thousand fourteen," MacLeod said. "And every one of them was a dishonorable bastard."

 

"I'm a bastard," Jethro reminded him. "Second B." While he and MacLeod held Tanaka's attention, Tony's hand had almost reached his pocket.

 

"Yeah, but you're an honorable bastard," MacLeod countered.

 

"Take his head _now_ or she dies!" There was an edge of insanity to Tanaka's voice now - and Jethro fought to conceal a wince. Whatever leeway he'd thought they had to negotiate was gone.

 

Jethro shifted his body so he faced MacLeod fully once again. That the position hid his right hand from Tanaka was a bonus.

 

"Do what you have to do," he told MacLeod.

 

"Gibbs - Jethro -" Tony protested, but Jethro ignored him, instead keeping his eyes locked on MacLeod's while his hand completed its excruciatingly slow path to his pocket.

 

MacLeod regarded him steadily, and Jethro managed a grin. "Go on. You know what to do."

 

MacLeod hesitated a moment, then nodded, once. "Sorry, Gibbs. You're one of the good ones."

 

"Three ex-wives would debate that," Jethro murmured even as he shifted his attention to Tony - whose hand was at his pocket.

 

MacLeod chuckled briefly before hefting his katana. "Sorry about this."

 

"I know," Jethro said.

 

He might not have the reflexes he'd had when he joined the Corps, but he had a couple of centuries of experience to make up for that lack.

 

MacLeod shifted his katana, drawing back, and as he swung what would be a fatal blow, Jethro dropped to his knees, grabbing for his pocket gun.

 

What happened next imprinted itself as a series of images in Jethro's memory.

 

MacLeod's sword whistled over his head closely enough that if he hadn't gone back to a modified high-and-tight haircut with his last identity, he would've gotten it then.

 

Tony pulled his pocket gun and fired in one smooth motion, Jethro's own shot echoing a split second later, followed immediately by a scream that could only have come from Jo Benoit.

 

Then quiet, punctuated only by Kinnear's, "What the hell -?"

 

Jethro got to his feet and approached the table where Jo sat, circling around it from one side as Tony approached from the other, both their weapons ready.

 

The weapons weren't necessary. Tanaka lay on the ground, eyes open and unblinking.

 

Tony glanced at Jethro before holstering his weapon and checking Tanaka for a pulse. Jethro knew it was a formality only. One bullet hole punctured Tanaka's forehead, and another his chest - both kill shots.

 

Tony rose, shaking his head in confirmation. For once, Jethro thought, even Tony had no wiseass remark, just a somber expression as he regarded the body of the man who had been Jethro's Watcher.

 

"Good shots," MacLeod observed.

 

"Yeah, well, a couple of centuries of practice and a good teacher will do that," Tony replied.

 

"So what are we going to do about this?" Kinnear asked.

 

Jethro shrugged. "Call it in."

 

Jo stared at him. "Are you insane? How can we explain all of this?"

 

"Just the facts," Jethro told her. "Friends got together to say goodbye to MacLeod and Kinnear, and one of them went crazy. No idea why - let them figure it out, if they can."

 

"What about rule 7?" Tony asked, and Jethro shrugged.

 

"Plenty of details about what we're doing here, who we are. Only the motive remains in question. Let them chase their tails trying to find it."

 

**

 

A couple of hours later, after the police and crime scene techs had come and gone, Jethro started collecting empty glasses while Tony stacked plates and flatware.

 

"Well," MacLeod said, "at least they didn't tell me not to leave town."

 

"Would've been pretty stupid, with two active duty cops and one retired on scene," Tony observed.

 

Jethro chuckled grimly. "Wouldn't be the stupidest thing we've ever seen."

 

"No," Tony agreed somberly. Then he rose and crossed to MacLeod. "Sorry for the disruption to your party."

 

"Not your fault," MacLeod said. Then MacLeod's expression changed and he faced the two remaining Watchers. "But it does remind me that I have a question for you - who killed Methos?"

 

Jethro hoped he kept the flinch off his face, and took a breath. Before he could speak, Jo said, "I don't know."

 

"Haven't seen him around in a while," Kinnear added. "He went off the grid … twenty years ago? Something like that."

 

"Who's Methos?" Tony asked.

 

"Oldest living immortal," Kinnear said. "Five thousand and change, maybe getting close to six."

 

"He became a Watcher," Jo added. "Gave up the Game around the time you two died your first deaths."

 

"Then you don't know that he's dead," MacLeod said. "We might be four, not three."

 

That was his cue - never mind that it was one he hadn't been looking forward to. Jethro took a step forward. "We're not four."

 

MacLeod's gaze flew to him. "Who killed him?"

 

 _Suck it up, Marine._ "I did."

 

MacLeod's hand twitched, as though reaching for his sword, and Jethro wondered if MacLeod might yet take his head tonight. The look on Tony's face said he was wondering the same thing.

 

But when MacLeod spoke, his tone was calm. "When and why?"

 

"Five years ago. Because he asked me to."

 

The words hung in the silence for long moments - Jethro counted nearly to a hundred - before MacLeod said, "You'd better explain that."

 

"Fifteen years ago, he came to me and introduced himself. Then he asked if I would take his head - not a challenge, no fight, just said he was ready to die."

 

"Why you?" Kinnear asked.

 

"He thought I was the best choice of the remaining immortals."

 

MacLeod's jaw twitched, and Jethro met his glare.

 

"So you just killed him?" MacLeod demanded.

 

"Not then," Jethro said. "I told him he needed to think about it, be damned sure it was what he wanted, and if he came back to me again, I'd do it."

 

"And he did," MacLeod whispered, the agony in his tone matched only by the grief on his face.

 

"Took ten years, but he did." Jethro felt his mouth flattening. "I can't say I was happy to do it - but I would've wanted someone to do it for me, if I got to that point."

 

 _Again_. He didn't say the word aloud, and only Tony would echo it silently. He'd managed not to tell anyone else, immortal or Watcher, the exact circumstances of his first death. Somehow, though, Methos had known, had used that in his attempt to convince Jethro to offer him that _service_ , he'd called it.

 

Methos was the only person he'd killed that he didn't sometimes have nightmares about.

 

"I get it," Tony said quietly. "And given the Quickening, I get wanting to pick who took my head."

 

"You get it?" Jo repeated, her tone skeptical. "You mean you've been suicidal?"

 

"No," Tony answered. "But I get that there are circumstances in life that might take someone to that point. And I get that even though I enjoy being immortal now, that doesn't mean I always will."

 

"Last time I saw him, he did look … tired," MacLeod said quietly, as though the words themselves caused him pain. "Even … old. But why ask you, Gibbs? Why not ask me?"

 

"Would you have done it?" Jethro asked gently. "Without making a fuss?"

 

To his credit, MacLeod considered the question with bowed head before shaking his head, slowly.

 

"The first, maybe. The second - no." MacLeod looked up, finally, and met Jethro's eyes. "Thank you."

 

Jethro swallowed back a deflection. This mattered to the other man, and he would accept whatever MacLeod needed to say. Instead, he nodded, once, and said, "He left something for you. I have to get it from a safe box at the bank, but I'll bring it to you tomorrow."

 

"Thanks." MacLeod swallowed, and forced a grin. "Thanks for dinner, too. I should get going - still have to pack everything I own and I only have a day to do it."

 

He shook hands all around, and then was gone. For a moment, Jethro wished the evening had gone differently. Then he shoved that regret aside. Done was done, after all, and couldn't be changed.

 

"I should go, too," Jo said. "I don't need to pack, but my new boss is a real taskmaster."

 

"Tomorrow's Saturday," Jethro reminded her, and she started, then laughed.

 

"Point. But it is late - or rather, early, thanks to Tanaka - and though I don't turn into a pumpkin at midnight, I do need _some_ sleep."

 

"Before you go." Tony's tone was firm, and not only Jo, but also Kinnear and Jethro turned to him instinctively. "I have something I want to put on the table."

 

Jethro knew the calculating, thoughtful expression in Tony's eyes. "What is it?"

 

"What happened with this - Methos?" Tony tested the name, then shrugged. "I never met him."

 

"What about him?" Kinnear asked.

 

"Not so much him as us," Tony countered. "The three of us. I meant it when I said I get it that someone might reasonably want to end his own life. But follow that out a few centuries. Just because right now, neither Jethro, Duncan, nor I are in that place doesn't mean we won't get there. Assume that all three of us do get to that point, in turn. Eventually, there'll only be one of us left."

 

"Which was the original plan," Jo reminded him. "Or legend."

 

"But what happens when there is only one left, and that one's ready to die, too?" Tony asked.

 

Jethro felt his eyes widen. He hadn't considered that when he honored Methos' request, and since then, he'd been too busy living his own life to worry about others who might want to end theirs.

 

Then again, he'd believed there were still more immortals remaining, so the issue wasn't one of any urgency. But now that Tony had brought it up, Jethro got the implications immediately.

 

"That could be a problem," he said. "Too long alone - and the last immortal will be alone in a lot of ways - leads to severe psychological problems."

 

"Even though _too long_ varies from person to person," Tony agreed.

 

"There've been … unstable immortals before," Jo said, her hesitation suggesting she'd considered and discarded several words before settling on _unstable_.

 

"Not like this," Tony said. "Not like it is now."

 

"What do you mean?" Kinnear asked.

 

Jethro got it immediately. "Until now, one person couldn't make or break too much in the world - even the exceptions you're undoubtedly thinking of have become footnotes to history."

 

"But an immortal - someone who can't be killed…" Tony broke off, started again. "Think about an immortal Nero. Vlad Dracul. Or Hitler, Stalin, Mao, Guevara. And that's what we're talking about here, the worst-case scenario. Someone has to be ready to step up, preferably before anything too crazy happens."

 

"Seems like you Watchers are already set up to do it." Jethro watched their expressions flicker from shock to outrage to contemplation.

 

"It makes sense," Kinnear said finally. "We can kill him if he wants - like you did, make him ask more than once, so he and we know it's what he really wants - or take him down if he gets too crazy."

 

Jethro smiled, and if the expression was just a little grim, well, the topic demanded it. "Thank you."

 

"Not that it's going to happen anytime soon," Tony added, grinning widely. "Not with Duncan off to Mars on a whole new adventure."

 

"But what about you two?" Jo asked.

 

Jethro didn't even have to glance at Tony before answering. "We still have dirtbags to catch."


End file.
